by Kathi Daley
“I’m hardly what you’d call a key witness. I left at five thirty, and Mr. Hamilton was still at the bank. I never saw him again.”
“I know, but you’ve worked at the bank longer than anyone else. You have a unique insight that others might not.”
Martha smiled. “Yes, that is true. I’ve worked at the Bank of Holiday Bay since before Wesley was even born. There is nothing that goes on there that I don’t know about.”
“I understand that on the day he disappeared, Wesley went to the home of Tate Anderson to serve eviction papers.”
Martha’s mouth tightened. “Yes. That is true. It was sickening how much joy the spoiled brat got from inflicting pain on others. Mr. Jasper Hamilton was such a good man. A kind and giving man. I simply do not understand how he ended up with a son like Wesley.”
“Do you think it is possible that Mr. Anderson killed Wesley when he showed up on his doorstep with the eviction papers?”
“What?” Martha looked genuinely shocked. “Of course not. Mr. Anderson is about as kind a man as any I’ve met. Not that he wouldn’t have been justified if he had decided to take a knife to the man’s gut, but I’m sure he didn’t.”
There it was again. The reference to Wesley being stabbed. I was sure that the cause of death hadn’t been in any of the news stories I’d read.
“You also made a comment about Sam having the knives to have stabbed Wesley. I wasn’t aware that his cause of death had been made public.”
Martha paled. “I’m sure I saw somewhere that he’d been stabbed. Or maybe someone who came into the bank told me as much.”
“Perhaps.” I paused and let the conversation settle just a bit. I could see how nervous Martha really was. “I was just over at the rental place. I noticed that they’ve expanded into yard equipment.”
“Yes, I know. Nick helped him with the loan for the new equipment. Nick thought the ability to rent items such as the tractor and rototiller would benefit the entire community. He even borrowed the little tractor to work on a drainage line from his basement. It really is a handy and easy-to-use little piece of equipment.”
“I suppose the tractor could even be used to dig a hole. Perhaps even a grave.”
Martha frowned. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that perhaps the real reason Nick left town was because he killed Wesley and then used the little tractor he rented to bury him in his own grave.” I hoped that blaming Nick would get Martha to admit what I wanted her to.
“Nick didn’t do anything. None of this is his fault. Nick is a kind and gentle man who would never hurt anyone.”
“Okay. Then if Nick didn’t kill Wesley, what really happened?”
Martha hesitated.
“I know that Nick rented the little tractor the same day Wesley was buried in the grave,” I added, even though I knew no such thing.
“Nick didn’t kill Wesley. He would never do that, no matter how desperately that man needed to be stopped. Do you know that Tate Anderson has three children under the age of five? Do you know that he’s had to take on three jobs just to make ends meet ever since his wife was in a car accident and had to take time away from work? He was only a few months late on his mortgage. He would have caught up as soon as he was able.”
“What happened, Martha? Did you kill Wesley to stop him from evicting Mr. Anderson?”
“I didn’t mean to. The whole thing just got out of hand.”
“What whole thing?”
Martha bowed her head. I could see the tears that were running down her cheek.
“What whole thing, Martha?”
“Mr. Hamilton called me that night. I’d already gone home, but he was having car trouble and wanted me to pick him up at the Anderson place. I guess someone had dropped him off there so he could evict him, but when he arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were out and the kids were with a babysitter. I hated to do a favor for the man, but he was my boss, so I agreed to go get him. I picked him up, and he told me that he needed to get some paperwork from the bank and asked if I could take him there and wait and then drive him home. I was reluctant, but I agreed. While we were at the bank, I went inside to see if a file I’d been waiting for had come in. That was when I heard Mr. Hamilton on the phone. He was talking to someone about providing fake documentation to make certain that Sam Trotter would cooperate and sell his store to the bank so the bank could turn around and sell the whole block to the developer. When Mr. Hamilton hung up, I confronted him about what I’d heard. I told him that I was going to tell the board what he was up to, and he threatened me. He tried to grab my arm, but I ran. Somehow, I ended up getting myself trapped in the employee break room. I’m still not sure what happened then. He lunged for me, I picked up a big knife we’d used to cut the birthday cake the other employees had bought for me, and the next thing I knew, Mr. Hamilton was on the floor with a knife in his chest.”
“It sounds like an accident, or maybe even self-defense. Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?”
“I don’t know. I was scared. I called Nick, and we came up with the idea of burying him and then acting like we had no idea what had become of him. Nick used the little tractor to dig the hole and then fill it in, and then he helped me clean up the blood.”
I narrowed my gaze. “What made you think to bury him in his own grave?”
“You did.”
“Me?”
“You wrote it in one of your books. I think it was either Under a Pumpkin Moon or maybe When Daffodils Die. I remembered that in the story, the victim was buried in his own grave.”
“Yes, I did write that in Under a Pumpkin Moon. The scene in that book is what caused me to suggest to Colt that we should look for Wesley there.”
“I should have known you might figure it out.”
“You know you will need to tell all of this to Colt.”
Martha blew out a breath. “I know. I’m sorry I killed the man, but I’m not sorry he’s gone. In a year’s time, he had completely destroyed what his daddy had spent a lifetime building. He put families out on the street and destroyed lives. He didn’t deserve what he had.”
I found that I couldn’t disagree with her.
Chapter 23
“What a weekend,” Georgia said as she put her feet up on the coffee table in front of her.
“It was great, but I’m exhausted,” I seconded. “I think that despite all the little hiccups, our weekend events have been really well received.”
Georgia tucked one of her legs up onto her lap and began massaging her foot. “Everyone loved the murder mystery dinner. I had several guests ask about making reservations for next year. I told them we hadn’t made definite plans to have the same event next year, but I took names and numbers and told them I’d call them when we figured out our event schedule.”
“So far, everything we’ve done has been a hit. We may want to work in a few new events while bringing some of those we’ve tried back every year. I imagine that we’ll have a list of events to choose from after a few years.”
“I have started making a list of events we’ve held, and I have some new ideas as well. One of the guests coming in this week works for a travel magazine. She is here in an unofficial capacity, but I’m hoping to be able to take her aside to talk to her about our upcoming lineup. We’ll have a short break at the beginning of November, but we are completely booked between the weekend before Thanksgiving and the weekend after New Year’s.’’
“I think we are going to be glad we are bringing Jeremy on board to help out. It would be almost impossible to keep up with booked rooms and all the events on top of snow removal.”
Georgia switched legs and began massaging her other foot. “I spoke to Lonnie today. He should have the apartment ready by the first week in November. He’s managed to make a lot of progress while we didn’t have guests during the week, so that worked out well. I also spoke to Jeremy. He and Annabelle are close to being ready to move, and the first week in November will work well. Annabelle is
excited about starting school here and hopes to be enrolled in time to try out for the Christmas pageant.”
“It’ll be fun having her around. She is such a sweet little thing.”
“She’s definitely tugging at my maternal clock. I didn’t think I wanted kids of my own, but if I could have one like Annabelle, then maybe.”
“I noticed that things seem to be heating up between you and Tanner. He’s so good with his dogs; I would assume he’d be a good father.”
“Whoa. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Tanner and I are barely a couple, but yeah, he’d be an awesome dad. I mean, just the way he’s so patient with Nikki proves that.”
I couldn’t help but notice the way Georgia glowed when she spoke about Tanner. She might be wading into things slowly, but I was willing to bet that it wouldn’t be long before she was fully submerged in the deep end. I envied her in a way. She’d found a great guy and somehow worked through her anger and grief to the point where she felt she was ready to move on to another relationship. There were times I wondered if I’d ever get there. I liked and admired Colt and sensed that he might be interested in something more than a friendship, but my anger and grief must have run deeper than Georgia’s because I found that I was not at all ready to let go of it.
After a bit, I excused myself and headed into my room. I double-checked everything to make sure my wandering kitty didn’t let himself out again. Lonnie had found it hysterical that Rufus was our ghost, but he had done quite a bit of damage. Then again, cats would be cats, and I was sure the skeletons and garlands had presented a temptation that could not be resisted. I cringed when I considered the temptation that an inn full of Christmas trees would present. I was really going to have to keep an eye on him.
I was tossing my clothes in the hamper when I noticed the box from San Francisco that I never had gotten around to opening. I carried it over to my bed and, using a letter opener, slit open the top. I was expecting to find mementos and other items sent by Annie, but what I was inside instead was a stack of old file folders stuffed with photos, handwritten documents, and newspaper articles. On top of the stack was a note from Ben’s best friend. His note simply said that Ben had asked him to temporarily store the box in his garage while our condo was being remodeled. That was odd. We hadn’t remodeled the condo since we’d first bought it, but that was years ago. Apparently, the friend had forgotten about the box until he was cleaning out the garage and come across it. He figured I might want the contents, so he’d asked Annie for my address and sent it along.
The files didn’t look to be case files but rather personal mementos Ben had saved over the years. Why on earth would he give these keepsakes to someone else to hang on to? Ben had a home office. This didn’t make sense.
I tucked the box into a corner. As curious as I was about the contents of the box, I was also exhausted. Trying to figure out why the fragments of Ben’s life kept slipping into mine even after he was gone was a challenge best left for another day. I climbed into my bed and turned onto my side. Molly curled into my stomach while Rufus curled up on the pillow next to my head. There were times when I missed Ben and Johnathan so much that it caused me physical pain, but most of the time, I was content in my new life. I knew that Colt was right when he’d said that pursuing things from my old life, like Ben’s cold cases, and a box of mementos stored in a friend’s garage, would probably only bring me grief. The past was over, and I knew it would be best to leave it there. The question was, could I?
Next from Kathi Daley Books
https://amzn.to/2KqR04a
Preview
When I was a little girl, I would sit with my cat high up in the attic window overlooking the lake, dreaming the dreams only little girls can imagine. I’d plot adventures and weave enchanted tales as the seasons turned and the years unwound. It was a magical time, filled with possibilities that existed only in my mind. I’d imagined fairies in the forest, mermaids in the lake, and gnomes in the garden. As a child sitting in that window, nothing had seemed impossible, but as a broken adult sitting in the same window a quarter of a century later, I had to admit, if only to myself, that somewhere along the way, the magic I’d once believed in, had died along with my dreams.
“Callie, are you up there in the attic?” Great-Aunt Gracie called up the stairs.
“Yes, Aunt Gracie,” I called back.
“Is Alastair up there as well?”
I glanced at the black cat sitting in the window next to me. “He is.”
“I’m going to run to the market to pick up something for dinner. Is there something you’d prefer?”
I’d lost my appetite about the same time I’d lost my reason for living, but I supposed I did have to eat. “Anything is fine.”
“Okay, dear. I won’t be long.”
I pulled the cat into my lap as Gracie drove away. I ran my fingers through his long black fur as I turned slightly and looked around the room filled with boxes and discarded furniture from generations of Hollisters. As the last Hollister daughter, I knew the house, lakefront property, private dock, and groundskeeper’s cabin would one day be mine, but to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted them.
Setting the cat on the floor, I unfolded myself from the window. I wrote my name—Calliope Rose Collins—in the dust covering one of the tables that had been stored by some previous resident. I remembered doing the same thing as a child living in this house after my parents died, and somehow, in that moment, I felt connected to that child and the dreams she’d once held in a way I hadn’t in a very long time. I’d done my best to go after those dreams. To bring my fantasies into reality. But along the way, I’d learned that what we plan for and what we are destined to have don’t always line up.
Alastair darted under a sheet that was draped across an old sofa. I supposed if you were a cat, that the attic was filled with all sorts of magical places to explore. I could hear him swatting at something beneath the covering as I wandered around the large space, opening boxes and sifting through the contents inside them. When I was a child, the boxes and their contents had seemed like treasures. The old clothes left by ancestors long gone had provided hours of entertainment as I tried on each piece and let my imagination take me where it might. The old top hat had become a magician’s hat, the costume jewelry a queen’s dowry, and the yellowed wedding dress a ball gown. The books stored in the boxes had provided hours of escape, the old art supplies a creative outlet, and the old piano, which some ancestor had schlepped all the way up to the attic before I was even born, a window to my soul.
I’d found a safe haven in this attic. Not only had I found solace during a time when little could comfort me, but I’d also found meaning and passion for the one thing that had pierced my grief and mattered. Pausing, I turned and looked around the room, searching for the piano. I remembered the first time I’d stumbled across the fascinating device that would deliver wonderful music with the touch of a finger. I’d been enchanted from the first keystroke and had begged Gracie to teach me to play. And she had. She’d taught me the notes and how to read music, but it was the hours spent alone with the melodies that existed only in my imagination that cemented a love affair that I was sure would last a lifetime. I looked down at my hands. Using my right forefinger, I traced the long scar that ran down my left arm from elbow to wrist. I tried to move fingers that, at times, refused to cooperate. Everyone said I’d been lucky. Everyone said that it could have been so much worse. Everyone said that having a life without music was better than having no life at all.
They were wrong.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to move on. While the attic was dusty, crowded, and unorganized, I did appreciate that everyone that had lived in the house had left something of themselves behind. Even I’d left boxes of old toys and outgrown clothing when I’d moved away. I wondered why Aunt Gracie hadn’t just taken all this junk to the secondhand store, but I supposed if she did, some future resident of the house would be robbed of the opportunity to pla
y dress up and spin tales of salty pirates and kidnapped princesses the way I had.
Longing pierced my heart as I opened a box of photos. I picked up an old Polaroid of my parents on their wedding day. They looked so happy, so optimistic about the future. My mother and I looked a lot alike. Dark hair, dark eyes, a petite frame barely reaching five feet in height. My father, in contrast, had been tall and blond. His blue eyes sparkled with happiness as he stared back at the photographer. I knew I’d joined the couple and created a family just ten months after the photo had been taken, and four years after that, the people I most depended on would be forever ripped from my life.
Setting the box of photos aside, I lifted the sheet in search of the cat. “Alastair,” I called.
“Meow,” he responded from across the room.
I turned and tried to hone in on his exact location. There were a lot of objects for something as small as a cat to hide behind, so I started across the attic in the general direction of the meow. I supposed if I didn’t find him by the time Gracie returned, I’d just leave the door ajar and he’d find his own way out. I maneuvered carefully through sheet-covered furniture and dust-covered boxes, jumping involuntarily as I bumped into the dressmaker’s mannequin. I remember how terrified I’d been of the lifelike shape when I’d first seen it. As a four-year-old, I’d been sure the form came to life when no one was looking. Gracie had been patient with me, taking her time to convince me that the stuffed dressmaker’s tool wasn’t real. It had taken several months, but eventually, I stopped screaming every time I saw the dang thing.
Aunt Gracie had always had a lot of patience. After my parents died, I felt so alone in the world, but Gracie had taken her time with me. She’d tried very hard to make me feel at home in my new surroundings, but I never really had until she’d introduced me to the attic and the magic that could be found in the little room beneath the rafters. Old houses, with their history, their lifelines, and their curses fascinated me. Despite the tragedy that seemed to be connected to my own family home, I loved the idea of longevity, and places where multiple generations shared a single space.