Legacy Reclaimed

by Robin Patchen

  Dylan could imagine that. “Has anyone been staying with you since you got back?”

  She shook her head, looked away. “I’m used to being alone.”

  But she didn’t seem to like it any more than her mother had. People weren’t meant to live life alone. From what he’d learned, Chelsea’d had more than her share of isolation.

  The door to the garage opened, and Frank stepped inside. He kissed the top of Chelsea’s head. “Hope you don’t mind I let myself in.”

  “Of course not,” Chelsea said.

  He glanced at the door. “Where’s the Jeep?”

  “Oh,” she said. “I was going to have it towed. I totally forgot.” She told him about the Jeep dying in the food bank parking lot. “Sorry about that.”

  “Least of our worries,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Grab a drink and have a seat.”

  He skipped the drink and slid into the chair beside her, then leaned toward her and took her hand. “How’s the foot?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Not sure it was a great idea for you to go back up on the mountain with that injury, especially after what happened the other day.” Frank shot a glare Dylan’s way.

  “She’s got a stubborn streak,” Dylan said. “She get that from your side of the family?”

  Frank leaned back a little. His smile seemed genuine. “From her dad, I think. He was wicked stubborn.”

  Chelsea chuckled. “Now that I’m back in New Hampshire, I need to filter wicked back into my vernacular.”

  “Quite,” Dylan said, which earned a laugh from her.

  Frank didn’t seem impressed. “Tell me what happened. You said he saved your life?”

  Chelsea told her uncle about the shooting at the cabin.

  When she was finished, he swallowed hard and laid his hand on top of hers. “I can’t even imagine what that must have been like. You’re so lucky you got away.”

  “Not lucky.” She smiled at Dylan, which had his insides turning somersaults. “You remember I told you I felt like God led me to Dylan?”

  Frank shot another look Dylan’s way. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Dylan saved my life. If not for him, I’d have walked right into that man’s trap. But Dylan saw something and pushed me out of the way. He nearly got shot in the process.”

  Frank faced him now, the suspicion gone from his features. “Thank you.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Thank you so much for protecting her.”

  Dylan tipped his head.

  Chelsea filled her uncle in on all that they’d done the previous two days. When she got to the part about meeting Dougie, Dylan pulled the folded drawings from his back pocket. He found the one of the car wreck, folded it, and slid it back where he’d gotten it.

  “He drew these.” He rested the drawing of Chelsea and the one of the would-be killer on the table. “Seems he got a look at the killer. Do you recognize him?”

  Frank lifted the one of Chelsea. “That guy saw you? The weird one who works up there?”

  “He’s not ‘weird,’ Uncle.” Her voice held a hint of annoyance. “He’s autistic.”

  “Whatever.” He tapped the drawing. “He saw you. How do you know he’s not the one who pushed you?”

  “Dougie would never hurt me. We’re friends.”

  “You can’t be friends with someone like that. He admitted that he was there. Far as I’m concerned, he’s our number one suspect.”

  Dylan’s gaze flicked from Chelsea, who’d shifted away from her uncle, to Frank, who leaned forward, face red.

  “This guy tried to kill you, and—”

  “It wasn’t him. He saw me, but he was walking the trails—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you saw him?” Frank asked.

  “I didn’t see him,” Chelsea said. “He saw me. He was working.”

  Frank sat back, folded his arms. “He saw you, didn’t say anything, and then ‘someone,’”—he actually made air quotes—“pushed you off the cliff.” He shook his head. “Come on, Chelsea, your soft spot for that crazy guy is messing with your head.”

  Chelsea looked at Dylan for help.

  “Sir,” Dylan said, “I don’t think Dougie did it. He approached us today and gave us these drawings. If he’d done it, he wouldn’t have given us the one of Chelsea.”

  “If he was trying to make himself look innocent, he would have.”

  Dylan shook his head. “Have you ever met him?”

  Frank’s pfft answered the question. “Seen him often enough. Don’t have to meet him to know he’s weird. And not all there, right? I mean, you met him. What did you think?”

  “He was scared,” Dylan said. “He stayed a good ten feet from Chelsea. The only time he got close was when he handed her those drawings, and he backed away immediately. I don’t think he’d be capable of murder.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t entirely trust my niece’s safety to some two-bit PI—”

  “Uncle Frank,” Chelsea said, “that’s quite enough.”

  Funny how her accent came out more clearly when she was annoyed. Endearing, really.

  Frank gave Chelsea a close-lipped smile. “I get that you trust this guy—”

  “Considering he saved my life—”

  “So he’s got quick reflexes,” Frank said. “That doesn’t make him a good investigator.” He looked at Dylan. “Look, I’m sorry, but I need to know she’s in good hands. And I just don’t trust your judgment.”

  If Frank thought Dougie had pushed Chelsea, then Dylan didn’t trust Frank’s judgment, either.

  “Fair enough,” Dylan said. “But there are other reasons we know Dougie didn’t push her off the cliff.” He tapped the other picture, the one Frank had ignored. “That’s one of them right there.”

  Frank barely glanced at it. “If Dougie pushed her, then he could have drawn anybody running through the woods.”

  “True. Except this person looks like the guy who shot at us in the cabin.”

  Frank’s mouth opened. He said nothing, just looked at the drawing. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Well, he could have pushed you and someone else could have shot at you. Maybe they’re working together.”

  Chelsea’s stubborn streak definitely came from this side of the family. Except, where she was tenacious in a good way, this guy was stubborn to a fault. A huge fault.

  “Uncle.”

  She waited until Frank looked at her.

  “I saw the man who pushed me. It wasn’t Dougie. Dougie is slightly built. The man who pushed me was bigger than that. It wasn’t him.”

  Frank shrugged. “Fine.” Though he seemed more irritated than anything that they’d cleared the autistic kid.

  Dylan tapped the drawing of the hooded man. “You ever seen him before?”

  He studied the drawing, shook his head. “Doesn’t look familiar.”

  Dylan folded the papers and set them aside.

  Chelsea asked, “What about—?”

  “Tell us about Chelsea’s mother’s car accident.” Dylan hated to cut Chelsea off, but he didn’t want to show Frank the other drawing yet, not until he’d asked his questions.

  “What do you want to know? She was up on the mountain. She lost control of the car and hit a tree.”

  Dylan asked, “What time of day?”

  “Very early in the morning, just after five a.m.”

  “And you have no idea what she was doing there so early?” Dylan asked.

  “Chelsea and I have been over this.”

  “It won’t hurt to go over it with me,” Dylan said.

  Frank faced his niece. “I’ve racked my brain trying to figure it out. She went up to the mountain sometimes to hike, but never that early, at least not as far as I knew. But it’s not like… We were close, but not so close she kept me apprised on her routine. You’d be better off asking Laura.”

  Laura Blanchette, Dylan assumed. “Was it stormy or raining? The roads slippery or…?”

 
; Frank was shaking his head before Dylan finished. “Clear skies. Nothing that would have caused the accident.”

  “What do you think happened?” Dylan asked.

  “There’s a lot of wildlife up there.” Frank sighed, sat back. “I’m guessing she swerved to avoid a deer.”

  “In light of the recent attempts on Chelsea’s life, though, has it occurred to you that maybe her wreck wasn’t an accident at all?”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed.

  Chelsea watched her uncle, face filled with curiosity—nothing else. She trusted him completely.

  Dylan didn’t know the man well enough to share that feeling.

  “It never…” Frank shook his head. “What are you saying? That Maeve was murdered?”

  Dylan said, “I’m saying it’s a heckuva coincidence.”

  Frank stood, paced away, and turned to face them. He ran a hand through his white hair. “I don’t… It never crossed my mind.”

  “Let’s assume for a moment that Mrs. Hamilton was murdered,” Dylan said. “Any idea who might have done it?”

  “None.” Frank dropped back in his chair. “Everybody loved Maeve. She was good for the business, good for Coventry.”

  “Who stood to gain from her death?”

  Frank’s gaze met Chelsea’s. He smiled at his niece, patted her hand. “Chelsea is the sole inheritor. If—and let me emphasize if, because nobody but you has suggested Maeve’s death was anything but accidental—but if she was murdered, we know Chelsea didn’t do it.”

  “Based on what?” Dylan asked.

  Chelsea’s eyebrows lifted over those pretty blue eyes.

  He smiled at her. “I’m not saying you did it. I’d just like to hear Frank’s logic.”

  Frank scoffed. “She was in Paris.”

  “She could have hired someone.”

  Chelsea said, “I would never—”

  “I know.” Dylan lifted a hand to quiet her and nodded at Frank. “Go on.”

  “She wouldn’t kill her own mother.”

  Dylan shrugged. “She wouldn’t be the first.”

  Chelsea crossed her arms, but Dylan kept his focus on Frank. He wasn’t sure why he was following this line of questioning, but this is where his mind went, and as a detective, he’d learned to trust his instincts.

  “Chelsea had nothing to gain by her mother’s death. She has everything she needs. She was going to inherit the company anyway. She was looking forward to working with her mother, learning from Maeve how to run Hamilton.”

  “Maybe she didn’t want to wait,” Dylan said. “Maybe she was tired of biding her time in Paris and wanted to come home, but mommy dearest wouldn’t let her.”

  Frank was shaking his head. “No. No. Maeve never forced Chelsea to do anything. If she’d wanted to come home sooner, she would have.” He focused on Chelsea. “Right?”

  Chelsea’s mouth opened, closed. She looked from Frank to Dylan. “I did want to come home. Desperately. But Mum wanted me to stay in Europe for a couple more years. I’d gotten this prestigious internship, and she wanted me to take advantage of it.”

  “You applied for the internship,” Dylan said, “so you must have wanted to do it on some level.”

  Chelsea’s eye contact didn’t hold. She sipped her water, set it down. “Mum made some calls. She applied on my behalf.”

  Frank’s eyebrows lifted. “I didn’t know that.”

  Chelsea shrugged. “We had a bit of a row about it. I was tired of being in Europe, tired of waiting for my life to begin. My friends from school had all gone on to get jobs, and I was starting over in Paris. I knew a few people there, of course. But nobody I particularly wanted to spend time with. And, knowing I wouldn’t be staying, I didn’t want to form any long-term relationships. I didn’t date.” Her gaze flicked to Dylan, to the floor, to Frank. “There aren’t a lot of Parisian men who are longing to relocate to the woods of New Hampshire.”

  So… what? She’d been waiting to meet some guy from the woods of New Hampshire? That didn’t make sense, either. But it did solidify what she’d been telling him all along, that despite all the years in Europe, she considered New Hampshire home and had no intention of staying away.

  “I never understood why she sent me away in the first place. Why she made me stay gone so long.”

  Frank’s head shook slightly. “It doesn’t make sense. She couldn’t wait for you to come home. She told me…” His voice trailed off.

  “Told you what?” Dylan asked.

  Frank barely glanced at Dylan. “She told me you wanted that internship, that it was your dream.”

  Chelsea leaned back. “Why would she lie?”

  The question hung in the air in Maeve Hamilton’s living room. The woman would never have the opportunity to explain.

  “Okay,” Dylan said. “Assuming Chelsea didn’t murder her mother in a fit of rage—”

  “Obviously,” Frank said.

  “You’re saying nobody else had anything to gain by her death?”

  Frank shrugged. “I mean, I guess I gained control of the company, but only for a couple of weeks until Chelsea takes over.”

  “Are you enjoying running the company?”

  Frank faced him. “Yes.” He deadpanned the word. “That’s why I’m trying to murder my niece.”

  “I’m not accusing you any more than I was accusing Chelsea. Just pointing out a fact. Any guesses on how the shooter found Chelsea yesterday?”

  “Not a clue,” he said. “I’d assumed she’d gone to a hotel. I would never have considered Peter’s old fishing cabin. Especially since Chelsea’s afraid of bugs.”

  “I am not!” She shook her head, faced Dylan. “When I was about eight, we went camping—Daddy, Mum, Uncle Frank, and me—and there was an overabundance of spiders.”

  Frank said, “She threw a big enough fit that we ended up giving up camping and finding a hotel.”

  “I’m not eight anymore.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten over it.”

  “There was nothing to get over! It was…” She shook her head. “Forget it. It’s silly.”

  Dylan hated the irritation on her face, but he couldn’t help the short laugh. It was funny to see her frazzled by something so minor. “That’s how it is with family, though. You do one thing, and it sticks forever.”

  Her irritated look drained away, and her eyebrows lifted in question.

  “With me, it was my driving. I got two speeding tickets the first six months I had my license. And then I was in a pretty serious car accident, and it scared me. I could’ve killed myself. Worse, I could’ve killed the friend who was with me. I slowed down after that, haven’t gotten a ticket since. Nearly sixteen years later, and, to my family, I’m still lead-foot Larry.”

  Her laugh filled the room, and he couldn’t help but join her. She looked at Frank. “How about you? You ever get wrongly pegged?”

  “Probably just by your dad when we were teenagers.” His eyes crinkled in a smile. “He used to say I was too impatient, didn’t know how to play the long game.”

  “I don’t see you that way at all,” Chelsea said.

  He flipped his hand. “Proving the point.”

  “Who was older?” Dylan asked. “You or your brother?”

  Frank said, “I’m the older brother. He was the better brother.”

  Chelsea patted her uncle’s arms. “Don’t be silly, Uncle. We all have our gifts.”

  He shrugged. “It was hard growing up in the shadow of a younger brother, but… It doesn’t matter now.” He smiled at his niece. “When this is all over, we’ll go camping and have a campfire and make s’mores to celebrate.”

  “Deal.”

  The image of beautiful Chelsea roasting marshmallows, the glow of a fire reflecting off her porcelain skin…

  Dylan needed to refocus. To Chelsea, he asked, “Did your parents own any other properties?”

  “Dad had owned a few,” she said, “but Mum sold all the rest of them after
his death. She didn’t have time to manage them and take care of the business.”

  Frank said, “My brother liked to dabble. He owned real estate, invested in a fledgling ski area, started a boat rental place on the lake. Those extra businesses were what he did for fun—his hobbies. Maeve was much more focused.”

  “Do one thing and do it well,” Chelsea said. “That was Mum’s motto. Which went squarely against what she encouraged me to do.”

  “How so?” Dylan asked.

  “I was to run Hamilton one day, but she encouraged me to study fashion design alongside business. It was one thing to have a cursory understanding of design, but she seemed to want me to really focus on it.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it.”

  Frank said, “Maeve used to say it’s what you were born to do. She was so proud of your talent.”

  Chelsea sipped her water. “I got it from her. But I needed to understand the business, so I studied that as well. Earned an MBA. I should have come home when I graduated and started working at Hamilton. I should have skipped Paris—”

  “Your mother knew you’d love that internship,” Frank said. “Don’t you see? She wanted you to be happy. Running a business is hard. She had to know you’d rise to the challenge when the time was right, but she didn’t want that pressure on you, not yet. She wanted you to have fun.”

  Chelsea started to respond, stopped, shook her head. What was she thinking?

  Dylan turned his focus to Frank. “What else have you learned about the break-in?”

  “It happened Monday night. The police believe it was an inside job because no doors were breached. Whoever did it knew the code to get into the building.”