by Wendy Tyson
“He was screaming. His screams brought the others running. They found him in the water, doubled over, still screaming. He wasn’t with the body, but he was close enough.”
Megan said, “You couldn’t determine if the splatter on him was consistent with what you’d see if he’d wielded the knife.”
“He was soaking wet. Most of the blood had been washed off. He denies anything other than finding Chase, and right now we have no strong evidence to the contrary. His prints were on the knife handle, but so were a half dozen other people’s. And part of the knife was submerged. Not the best crime scene for forensics. No witnesses. No cameras. And most of the prints gone.”
“No surveillance going in and out of the park?”
King’s eyes narrowed. “You’re thinking of the kiosk where you leave day trip payments.”
Megan nodded. The park had a cheap day use fee and visitors were supposed to place their money and envelopes in a slot in a locked kiosk. “Visitors are supposed to write their license plate numbers on the envelopes. That could provide a clue.”
King smiled. “If only it were that simple. No security—completely an honor system. Shh. Don’t tell anyone. And almost no one includes their license number. We went through them; nothing helpful.”
“Right. And we’re assuming the killer would follow the rules. What’re the other possibilities? You said you had three.”
King said, “Two, it was someone from BOLD. Like Dillon, they each had opportunity. Motive is again an unknown.”
“And three?”
“A stranger. Someone who happened to be in the park and acted because they could.”
Megan frowned. “That was a lot of rage for a stranger.”
“Who knows what goes through people’s minds. Could have been someone with whom Chase had an altercation, could have been a road incident and the person stalked him to the park.” King frowned. “Road rage gone wild.”
“Stranger things have happened.” Megan sighed. “There’s a fourth possibility. That whoever killed Chase followed him to Pennsylvania for the purpose of murdering him.”
“Someone not affiliated with BOLD?”
A child on a tricycle and a woman running beside him were coming toward them down the path. Megan waited until they’d passed before responding.
“They could be affiliated with BOLD—or not. Chase wasn’t an easy guy to be around. Imagining that he had enemies isn’t that hard.”
King nodded. “So I’ve heard.”
Megan watched the Chief as he watched the boy on the tricycle. She and King had been through other murders together, sat vigil through many sleepless nights. She wasn’t surprised he was confiding in her. Besides her connection to Denver, she’d become and unofficial sounding board, a friend. She wouldn’t let him down now.
She said, “Your theories all ring true. If it were me, I’d start with Chase’s life. What was he into? Who did he hang around with? What did he do for fun?”
King looked briefly amused. “Besides work?”
Megan watched the receding backs of the boy and his mom. “There are twenty-four hours in a day, Bobby. No one can work all of the time.”
Fifteen
Sarah lived in a fairytale cottage on the outskirts of Winsome. Tucked into the woods, her home was a small Tudor dream. Megan parked and climbed out of her truck. She figured Sarah would be inside, writing at her dining room table, one or more cats sleeping by her computer. She decided to take a moment to wander around the yard, admiring the perennial gardens and tiny fairy villages, while collecting her thoughts.
Despite years of legal training, despite hours spent cross-examining witnesses and answering to surly judges and caustic plaintiffs’ counsel, Megan was intimidated by her aunt. Sarah Birch was no people pleaser, and her ideas about the world were often…different.
Aunt Sarah, a sworn bachelorette, lived a charmed life these days. She came and went as she pleased. With few human demands aside from her career, her perspective on life was, to Megan, often overly black and white, and conversations between the two of them could get heated. Megan steeled herself for whatever topic Sarah wanted to discuss today—no doubt, it would be incendiary.
After a few minutes, Megan knocked on the kitchen door. Sarah answered immediately. Her tall, solid form was dressed in an ankle-length maroon cotton skirt and matching lace-trimmed top. A gray sweater had been tied neatly around her neck, and chunky silver earrings hung from her lobes. Her long, thick gray hair had been wrestled into one chunky braid. Striped maroon and navy-blue readers hung from a navy lanyard around her neck.
“Megan,” she said, stepping back. “Come in. I assume Bonnie gave you my message? Thank you for stopping by.”
“No problem.” Megan stepped over the threshold and into a firestorm of paper. There were stacks on the kitchen counters, on the dining room table, and from what Megan could see, on the living room floor and every available furniture surface. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
Sarah laughed—it was deep and guttural and rather infectious. “Understatement. Two book deadlines, different stages in the editing cycle. I like to print off my manuscripts and read them in hard copy. I’m old-fashioned that way. Somewhere along the line, I got my edits mixed up and I’m just now sorting through.” She waved toward the living room loveseat, one of the few places where you could still see fabric. “Come, have a seat.”
Sarah sat cross-legged on the floor across from Megan. One of her cats, a large orange tabby, took up residence in her lap.
“Dr. Star called me,” Sarah said. “Benjamin Star. Ring a bell?”
“The psychologist at Pioneer Village School?”
Sarah nodded. “He and I have known each other for a while. I used him as a reference when I was writing a book. Remember Murder at Lehman Hall? The school in that book was fashioned after Pioneer Village. Benjamin and I met a few times, I bought him dinner, he gave me great insight into schools for the gifted.”
Megan let this sink in. Her aunt—and her aunt’s wide network—never ceased to amaze her. Nevertheless, why would she know Megan had visited the school?
“Don’t look surprised, Megan. Benjamin called me after you left the school. He recognized your name from events last year. Didn’t take him long to connect the dots. He called me thinking that you had a relative you wanted to be considered for the school.”
“You didn’t dispel him of that, did you?”
Sarah smiled. “No. Your secret is safe. I know full well you went there because of the murder. You wanted to see what the fuss was about, and why Eloise Kent put the boy in that school to begin with.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t get very far in my quest for information.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Benjamin is very careful about patient privacy. Although I don’t see where the school fits in, perhaps I can help you?”
Megan squirmed in her seat. She was expecting an argument. She wasn’t expecting her aunt to be helpful. “Has the school had any history of issues?”
“What kind of issues?”
“Kids with violent tendencies? Allegations of abuse?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How do kids get into that school?”
“It’s private. Most students pay tuition. Those who are worthy of admission, that is.”
“‘Worthy of admission?’ You make it sound like a prestigious prep school, not a school for kids with delinquency issues.”
Sarah raised her pointer finger and wiggled it back and forth. “Not so fast. Very few of the kids have criminal histories or tendencies. They have to be smart, and they have to have what Benjamin calls adjustment problems. Social anxieties. Phobias. Some of the kids have Asperger’s or Attention Deficit Disorder. There is a range, but generally these students are functioning and non-violent.”
“Kids like Dillon Brown.”
“
Yes, kids exactly like Dillon.”
“Dillon clearly has some adjustment issues likely stemming from family trauma. But if he’s there, he would by definition also be smart.”
“Benjamin doesn’t bend that rule.”
“So I’ve heard.” Megan rubbed her eyes. “Dr. Harriet Mantra, a principle at BOLD Pharmaceuticals, wanted this mentor outing as a way of paying the school back. She wanted each kid to have a mentor in the worlds of science or business. She was even offering full college tuition to kids who stuck with the mentoring program through the end of high school.”
“Yes,” Sarah said, “I’d read that. She was especially interested in attracting students to STEM careers.”
“Right. All very good. But if the school is private, why would these kids need scholarships? Does their parents’ ability to pay tuition mean they have money—and could pay for college? It feels like an empty gesture.”
“Not if it gave the company exposure.”
Megan had been thinking the same thing. More and more, this appeared to be a publicity boon for BOLD more than an actual attempt to pay back a school.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Sarah said. “The school can accept some underprivileged youth, and it uses a scholarship fund for those kids who can’t pay and who otherwise meet the criteria.”
“But Mantra wasn’t offering to add cash to the scholarship fund, or to send poor kids to college. She said she’d send anyone who couldn’t afford it and finished the program to college.”
“Convenient. Most of the kids who go to Pioneer Village are from wealthy families.” Sarah stretched her long legs out in front of her, disturbing the cat. He jumped up onto the loveseat and made a spot for himself behind a stack of files. “Harriet Mantra, huh? I suppose her daughter was Cat Mantra?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, Cat was one of the few students who did have a history of criminal behavior.”
“That meshes with what I’ve heard about Harriet’s daughter. Mantra basically chose this place to avoid juvie for her daughter.”
Sarah nodded. “Sounds like Cat. Only reason I know about her is that Benjamin confided that a particular student was causing issues. He didn’t name names, of course, but I read the papers and it was easy to put two and two together. Cat would run away frequently and cause problems with the locals.”
“That must have sparked tension between the town and the school.”
“You would think, but I suspect money was flowing, if you know what I mean.”
“Not quite.”
Another cat was slinking behind Sarah. This one was a sleek silver tabby. She looked young, and when she pounced on Sarah’s back, Sarah grinned. “Matilda,” Sarah purred, “did you finally come out to say hello?” She lifted the tabby onto her lap. “Found this one outside. Just a wee kitten. Romeo over there wants nothing to do with her, but she’s starting to come out of her shell.”
As though proving the point, Matilda leapt off Sarah’s lap and onto Megan’s. She curled into a tight ball, one paw out, and purred.
“Don’t pet her,” Sarah said. “She doesn’t like attention. Wants things on her own terms.” Sarah grabbed a pillow from a chair behind her and tucked it under her knees. “Where were we? Ah, the school and money. Did you happen to see the bird sanctuary? After someone from the school vandalized the town’s small bird watching area, everyone was upset. Gorgeous birds, I hear. Something about the plant life.”
Sarah readjusted again. “Iced tea?” she asked Megan.
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself. Anyway, two months later this bird sanctuary appeared. There’s a heated observation house with benches and windows, bird feeders for dozens of species of birds, gardens, and a part-time ‘ranger.’” Sarah put air quotes around the word ranger. “No one said Cat’s parents footed the bill, but after that the townspeople of Blessings stopped bitching about the school.”
“And Cat graduated?”
“My research finished mid-way through her senior year. I have no idea what happened to the girl, but I did see that a nature center went up in Blessings as well. Coincidence?”
“Hmm. Harriet Mantra credits the school with saving her daughter, yet it sounds like the kid’s behaviors continued throughout school.”
Sarah said, “Sounds that way. That was years ago. Maybe something clicked, and Cat went on to make something of herself. Stranger things have happened.”
“For sure.” Matilda started kneading Megan’s leg with her claws. Megan tried to move her, so her claws would dig into a less tender area, and the cat jumped down, indignant.
“Told you. Mind of her own.” Sarah stood and stretched. “Did I help?”
“You did—thanks.”
“Will you leave Benjamin—Dr. Star—out of it, then?”
Megan looked up, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“No need to talk with the school if your curiosity is satisfied. They hardly need the attention right now.”
Megan could feel her face heat up. Typical Sarah. “Is that why you called Bibi? To keep me from the school? Was this some type of quid pro quo with Dr. Star?”
Sarah’s smile tilted toward condescending. “Hardly. I told you, your secret is safe. But that horrible reporter from The Bucks County Times did a terrible piece on the school this morning. Did you see it? I feel I owe Benjamin, and if you show up asking questions, it’s bound to attract more attention.”
Megan took a deep breath. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps the school is complicit somehow? From what you’ve told me, they took Cat—a kid with delinquent tendencies—and then possibly participated in the cover-up when she vandalized parts of the town. What if the school is doing that now? What if there is more to Dillon’s story than they’re willing to say?”
Sarah seemed unmoved. “Nonsense. Don’t make a simple situation more complicated than it needs to be. I need to get back to editing, Megan. Can you see yourself out?”
“Did you hear a word I said?”
“Of course. Did it occur to me? Yes. Do I believe it? No. Benjamin Star is a wonderful man. Caring, intelligent, generous. He understands that bright kids have special needs, and he views himself as protector and advocate. The world could use more Dr. Stars.”
“That doesn’t mean the school isn’t somehow involved. That at the very least, they’re hiding information about Dillon.”
“That man died because someone was very, very angry at him. An adult did that, Megan. I write mysteries for a living, and there is no mystery here. Look for a grown-up with a grudge and you’ll have your killer.”
“You’re that sure?”
“Yes.” Sarah opened the back door, ushering her niece out with a saccharine smile. “I’m that sure.”
“Everyone has an opinion,” Megan said to Bibi later that night. They were eating vegetable soup and freshly-baked sourdough bread, and Bibi had asked about the Chase Mars murder. “Some seem to feel it’s Dillon, others that it’s absolutely not. I’m just trying to deal in facts.”
Bibi dunked a small slice of bread into the little amount of broth left in her bowl. “The police are on it?”
Megan told her grandmother about King’s visit to the café earlier that day. “That’s the thing, Bibi, this occurred at a state park. Bobby doesn’t feel like he has control of the investigation. I think he’s worried they’re going to steamroll the boy because he’s easy and they want this closed.”
“He’s a child. Surely that won’t happen.”
They both ate, aware that much worse things happen all of the time.
Bibi finished her soup and pushed the bowl away. “How well did Denver know this man, Chase.”
“Very well, years ago. They hadn’t really stayed in touch.”
“So effectively he was a stranger?”
“I guess, at least on some
levels.”
“As you learned with Thana Moore, people change.” Bibi frowned, clearly thinking about the murder that had occurred the year before. “Or maybe they become more themselves over time.” She picked at a piece of bread, twisting bits between arthritic fingers before popping them into her mouth.
Megan nodded. “We meet people at a point in time. Sometimes we grow together, other times we grow apart. My sense is that Denver and his friends—all of them—grew apart.”
Bibi waited until Megan was also finished before clearing the bowls from the table. She and Megan washed dishes and cleaned the kitchen side by side, a comfortable routine made more comfortable by silence.
When the kitchen sparkled and the clock on the wall read 8:37, Bibi announced she was turning in early. “Have to keep my girlish complexion,” she joked. “Besides, I feel tired. Maybe sleep will meet me half way.”
Megan kissed her grandmother good night. She wasn’t tired. She would return to her computer and information about Chase Mars.
It was 9:18 when Denver called. “Ready for some company?” he asked.
“Always,” Megan had just homed in on an article of interest and was lingering over a photograph.
“You sound distracted.”
“Do I?” Megan scanned the page. She needed another source—and bingo, she knew where to find it. “Can you come now?”
“Wow, I’m glad you want to see me—”
“Bring your social media passcodes.”
Pregnant pause, then, “Is this some kinky new game, Megs? Because I’ve had a long day of animal husbandry and surgery and—”
Megan laughed. “Not a kinky new game. Just found something interesting. Come now?”
“I’m at your service.”
Denver arrived at 9:44. He smelled clean and male, like bath soap and spicy after shave, and Megan resisted the urge to fall into his embrace. Instead, she pulled another chair over to her laptop and directed him to sit.
“Take a look at this,” Megan said.
“What am I looking at?”
“This is an archived article about what it’s like to be a roadie. Look at the last two paragraphs.”
