by Becky Wade
“Two men?” Charlotte asked.
Josephine nodded. “One of them was Don. I’ll never forget the way he was standing. He was casually leaning against the window, curtains drawn, with his arms crossed. He was wearing leather gloves, and he was looking at me with an expression that was just completely . . . blank. The other man was Stan Markum. I’d gotten to know him during the campaign because he was one of Foster’s biggest money donors. He was lying on a tarp on the floor, dead.”
“Jill’s going to have my head when she finds out I let Charlotte listen in on this conversation,” Melinda said under her breath.
“No, she won’t,” Charlotte replied. “I’ll stick up for you, Grandma.”
“How had Stan Markum died?” Corbin asked.
Josephine moved her attention to him. “He’d been stabbed while I was in the shower with the knife I’d used to cut the apples and the bread and the cheese. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but Foster hadn’t touched the knife once. My fingerprints were all over it. Only mine.” She moved her focus to Melinda. “Do you remember the monogram necklace I used to wear?”
“Yes.”
“The chain of that necklace had been ripped as if there’d been a struggle and it was lying in some of Stan’s blood. Also, Don had collected every single article of my clothing. My shoes and my dress. My undergarments. I could see my things, sitting inside a bag near his feet. Don had killed Stan. But he and Foster had set me up as Stan’s murderer.”
Corbin made a low whistling sound. “Why would Foster have wanted Stan Markum dead?”
“All these years later I’m not one hundred percent sure. Here’s what I do know: Stan Markum had plenty of good qualities, but he could also be ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted. He’d been raised with great wealth, and he wasn’t afraid to spend huge sums of money. Once he spent that money, though, he expected to get exactly what he’d requested in return. I suspect that Stan donated to Foster’s campaign in exchange for promises Foster made to him about how he would vote once he was elected. When Foster didn’t follow through on those promises, Stan must’ve been furious.” She paused. “I think he may have tried to blackmail Foster into doing his bidding. You see, Foster was never the clean-cut family man he seemed to be. If Stan hired an investigator, it probably wouldn’t have been hard to dig up incriminating evidence against Foster.”
“We found out that a businessman once charged Stan Markum with extortion,” Corbin said.
“So Foster may not have been the first person Stan tried to blackmail. But he was the last.”
“Why would Stan have come to the hotel room?” Willow asked.
“I think Foster and Stan had arranged to meet there. But by the time Stan arrived, Foster was long gone.”
“What did you do?” Charlotte asked. “When you came out of the bathroom and saw the dead guy?”
“I just stood there, appalled, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. A few minutes before, I’d been in the shower, humming and washing my hair. And then I came out to find . . . that. I’d never seen a dead body before. Certainly not one that had been murdered. I’d never seen that much blood.”
“What did Don say?” Melinda asked.
“He said, ‘Don’t scream and don’t run. I’ll let you live if you don’t scream and you don’t run.’ I was terrified. I didn’t scream and I didn’t run.”
Corbin leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees and watching Josephine beneath lowered brows. Willow had sensed his anger building as the story unfolded.
“Foster and Don’s plan was both elegant and simple,” Josephine said. “What happened that day took care of two birds with one stone. They got Stan out of the picture. And they got me, the woman who’d been pressuring Foster to get a divorce, out of the picture, too.”
“I can’t believe they got away with it,” Corbin said.
“The perfect murder,” Josephine said quietly. “Don explained that not one piece of evidence would point to himself or to Foster, and that if I didn’t do exactly what he said, that he’d call the police and tell them there was a dead man in my hotel room. He’d booked the room in my name.”
“Oh my gosh,” Charlotte whispered.
“Don had a new set of clothes for me to change into. I put them on and he made me leave everything else behind, including my purse. He locked the door on Stan and hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle. Then we got in his car, and he drove me to Foster’s fishing cabin here in British Columbia.”
“How did your car end up in a parking space next to the Pacific Dogwood Trail?” Corbin asked.
“Foster must’ve driven my car there when he left the hotel.”
“The police didn’t find his fingerprints in your car,” Corbin said.
“Foster and Don were nothing if not careful. And intelligent.” She rose. “Let me get the coffee.”
“I’ll help,” Melinda said.
Corbin pushed to his feet and started to pace.
Minutes later, the sisters returned bearing coffee. Willow accepted the cup she was passed and took a dainty sip. Corbin accepted a cup, too, and remained standing as he drank it. The cup looked like a toy in his large grip, which reminded her of the day they’d visited the tearoom together and he’d good-naturedly drunk tea out of girly china cups.
“What happened once you reached the fishing cabin?” Corbin asked.
Josephine hadn’t returned to her chair. Instead, she stood near the fireplace, cradling her steaming cup and saucer. “Don asked me what I wanted my new name to be. I made up the name Felicia Richmond. Then he locked me in the basement for three days while he waited for the forged documents I’d need in order to apply for Canadian citizenship to come through.”
Josephine tested her coffee before returning her cup to the saucer with a clink. “I was frantic because I knew what Alan and the rest of my family must’ve been going through.” Her eyes met Melinda’s. “I had no way to reach any of you. On the fourth day, Don let me out. The paper work was ready, and he’d bought me another set of clothes. I showered. I put the documents and the wallet he gave me filled with two hundred dollars into a new purse. On the drive to Vancouver, he told me that he’d buried Stan, the knife, my necklace, and my clothes in a remote location known only to himself and Foster. He said that if I ever tried to contact any of my family members or if I ever returned to the United States, that they’d alert the police to Stan’s burial site. Then he dropped me off on a street corner and drove away.”
“Did you ever think about coming home and telling us what had happened?” Melinda asked.
“I thought about it all the time for years. But I knew that the evidence against me was overwhelming. The hotel room was in my name, which would have made it look as though Stan’s murder was either premeditated or an act of passion because Stan and I were having an affair. No one would have believed that Foster and Don had been behind it, especially because I had no way to prove my relationship with Foster. He never wrote me letters or allowed me to take pictures. He was widely admired then, and still is. I just . . . I couldn’t risk it. I’d seen firsthand what Don was capable of. When he told me what he’d do if I tried to contact my family or if I came back to America, I absolutely believed him.” Her fingers encircled her coffee cup’s base, as if instinctively seeking its reassuring warmth.
“Why do you think Foster let you live?” Corbin asked.
She sighed. “I’d never tried to blackmail him like Stan had. The worst thing I’d done to Foster was attempt to love him more than he wanted me to love him. Perhaps Foster knew me well enough to know that I’d go along with everything Don said from the moment I stepped out of that shower.”
“How did you end up here?” Willow asked.
“I had the documents I needed to apply for citizenship, but the actual process of getting citizenship takes time. No one who was aboveboard would hire me because I was an illegal alien at that point. I quickly realized that Vancouver was not t
he best place for me to search for a job, that I’d likely have more luck farther out in the country, maybe with someone who needed hourly laborers to work on their property. I hitchhiked from Vancouver to Mission, then hitchhiked again from Mission. The car I was riding in drove down the road that runs in front of this place.” She gestured. “As soon as I spotted the nursery through the window, something about it felt . . . safe and right to me. Nothing had felt safe or right for days, and I was down to my last ten dollars. I asked the driver to let me off. When I came into the shop, I met Haven’s owner. His name was Bill, and he looked a little bit like Santa Claus. He was sixty-five at the time, and an incredibly softhearted man. I reminded him of his daughter, so he hired me.”
“And now this nursery belongs to you,” Melinda said.
“It does.” Josephine took another sip of coffee. “Bill taught me everything he knew about gardening and about the nursery business. When he retired, I took over his responsibilities. He died twenty years ago, and I still miss him every day. He left his money to his kids, but he left this place to me, and I’ve been taking care of it ever since. I’ve found a kind of peace here, I suppose, working with the plants.”
“Did you read an article about your disappearance in the Mission Tribune? Then mail it to your family?” Willow asked.
Josephine inclined her head. “Yes. I read that article shortly after I arrived here at Haven. It was strange and awful to read about myself in the paper. It brought home everything that was going on back in Washington. I was terrified to send anything home, but I found that I needed to say that I was sorry. So I wrote on the article and sent it home even though I never expected anyone to be able to forgive me.”
“I can forgive you,” Melinda said.
“So can I,” Charlotte said.
Josephine regarded them as if they’d taken her completely unawares.
“Does that surprise you?” Melinda asked.
“It does because . . . I’ve certainly never been able to forgive myself.”
Willow experienced a pang of kinship with Josephine. She understood that sentiment well. “The article you sent is what eventually led us to search for you here in Mission.”
“I’m glad that you’re here, Melinda. That you’re all here. At the same time, I’m worried. If Foster learns that you found me . . .”
“No one followed us on the drive here,” Corbin said.
“We’ll have to figure out a way to communicate in secret,” Melinda suggested. “Were you ever planning to . . . come back to us?”
“Yes, as soon as Foster died. But of course, he’s still very much alive.”
“Are you married? Do you have children?” Melinda asked.
Josephine shook her head. “I’ve never wanted to subject anyone else to the shadow I live under.”
A pause opened.
“We can’t let Foster Holt go on about his life without paying for what he did,” Corbin stated flatly.
“There’s no evidence linking Foster to Stan’s death,” Josephine said.
“I don’t think we have a chance of pinning Stan’s death on Foster,” Corbin admitted. “But we know that he’s had at least three affairs and that he was an accessory to Stan’s murder. We suspect that he made false promises to Stan in exchange for campaign donations. And that’s just the stuff we’re aware of. Think about all the illegal things he’s probably actually done. I’m going to hire an investigator.”
“An investigator?” Josephine asked.
“More like a whole team of investigators to look into every aspect of the senator’s life. Personal. Financial. Political. I’m certain we’ll find something. And when we do, we’ll tip off a reporter or the police and let them take it from there.”
Willow, Josephine, Melinda, and Charlotte all stared at him.
“A rat’s a rat,” he said. “Now that I know Senator Holt’s a rat, I’m going to bring him down.”
How was she going to give Corbin up?
She wanted to keep him. She wanted desperately to keep him.
Written by Josephine in her journal that night:
Friday, November 27th
Today. Today has changed everything. Today Melinda, her granddaughter, Charlotte, and their friends found me.
To look into my sister’s face again after so long was pure joy and regretful sadness all mixed up together. She’s still exactly who she always was . . . yet the years, the years have marked her just as they’ve marked me. We’ve lost decades of sisterhood. We are familiar strangers, and it will take time, perhaps a great deal of time, to build a new relationship.
To look into Charlotte’s face was to see the past rushing up to meet me, because she looks just like I did at that same age. Every decision and heartbreak and thrill of life is still before her. I can only pray that she takes better paths than I did.
Family.
It’s been so long since I’ve spent time with people who are related to me. I’m filled with a hundred emotions tonight, but most of all, I’m filled with gratitude. God allowed Melinda and Charlotte to find me. Regardless of what I’ve done, He took mercy on me. And He allowed my family to find a way back to me.
I’m unspeakably grateful.
Chapter
Twenty-three
I’ve already asked a few people for advice on how to set up a team of investigators,” Corbin told Willow the next day. It was Saturday, and they’d spent the past few hours with John and Nora at John’s house on Lake Shore Pine. The four of them had donned hats and gloves over their athletic gear, gone on a short hike, then explored the nearby inlets by kayak.
At the moment, John and Nora were making their way up the trail to John’s house to start dinner. They’d insisted they didn’t need help, so Corbin and Willow had stayed behind on John’s dock. They sat on the planks, their shoulders leaning into one another.
“It’ll probably take quite a while to compile evidence against Foster Holt,” she said. “He seems to be very good at covering his tracks.”
“I can be patient.”
“There’s also Don to consider.”
“I know. And even when Foster’s put in prison—”
“I like your positive thinking.”
“—he and Don will still have the ability to leak the location of Stan’s grave. So until both Foster and Don are dead, I don’t see a way for Josephine to come home or openly visit with her family.”
“Me neither.” Actions had consequences. Sometimes the consequences turned out to be far more long-lasting and terrible than one initially imagined. The consequences of Josephine’s affair with Foster Holt had changed the course of Josephine’s life. “At least now Melinda’s family has answers. Charlotte’s mystery is solved. And if they’re careful, Josephine can keep in touch with her relatives secretly. We did what we set out to do. We found Josephine.”
“We found Josephine,” he repeated.
This was their second to last day together.
The sunset was painting the sky with brushstrokes of mauve and plum.
And Willow’s heart was breaking.
Her departure had seemed distant enough to bear, right up until this morning when she’d hauled out her suitcases and stared at them as though they were tarantulas. I’m leaving. This is happening, she’d thought over and over.
While in Corbin’s presence, she’d been working to act as though nothing was wrong, which was like trying to dance in the ballroom of the Titanic while it was sinking.
She injected lightness into her tone. “You know, you remind me a little of Stan Markum. Like him, you’re determined and rich.”
“Right, but I don’t buy or blackmail politicians. I’m not above buying or blackmailing you, however. Name your price, and I’ll pay it if you’ll stay in Washington.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Blackmail it is, then,” he said.
She rested her head near his collarbone. “You’ve already tried to blackmail me once. With the Benevolence Worldwide che
ck. It didn’t work.”
“That doesn’t mean my evil plans won’t be successful this time. Let’s see . . . What can I blackmail you with?”
“Not much. My past is squeaky clean. I’m nauseatingly respectable on the surface.”
When he noticed her rubbing her hands together, trying to warm them, he unzipped his jacket and opened it to her. She scooted in closer and he hugged her against the hard contours of his dri-fit shirt. Heat enfolded her.
“If you don’t stay in Washington, then I’ll tell everyone that you binge shop for housewares,” he said.
She giggled.
“I’ll tell them that you talk to cars when you’re driving.”
“Ooh. Scandalous.”
“I’ll tell them that you like terrible movies.”
“Romantic comedies aren’t terrible!”
“I’ll tell them you eat more ice cream than a thin person should be able to eat. That’ll make them really mad.”
She lifted her head. “Blackmailer,” she accused affectionately.
He held her gaze and she could see how he felt about her in his eyes—the depth and the breadth and the commitment of it. “Willow . . .”
She placed a finger on his lips to stop him, because if he said, “I love you”—if he went that far, and she was scared he would because he wasn’t shy and he wasn’t fearful—then she couldn’t imagine how she’d be able to keep her promises to Joe.
She’d given her word to Joe, and she couldn’t allow her love for Corbin to wreck her honor a second time. She needed to keep the thin walls remaining between them in place. If she didn’t, their separation would just be that much harder to bear.
She set her forehead against his.
They stayed that way for a long moment. Then he kissed her, showing her that he had ways of telling her he loved her that didn’t require words.
“I take offense to the whole suggestion that I need God,” Joe said.