“The day of the memorial, Chelsea told you she planned to go up to the mountain the next morning. Do you remember who else was there for that conversation?”
Laura looked at Chelsea. “You don’t remember?”
“That day is a blur.”
“Let me think,” Laura said. “Nancy was there. And Marsha, of course. And… Karen, Gail, Peggy… You probably don’t remember her very well. She married Charlie.” She tapped her lips with an index finger. “I think that was it.”
Dylan glanced up from his notebook and asked Chelsea, “You know all those people?”
“Mum’s friends.”
Laura added, “Arthur was sitting at the bar. He might’ve overheard.”
“Arthur is a board member, right?” Dylan asked.
“Correct,” Laura said. “Been on the board since the beginning. Old Coventry family.”
“Did you tell anybody about Chelsea’s plans?”
Laura sat back. “Why would I have?”
He shrugged. “No reason. But if it came up in conversation, or—?”
“I wouldn’t have told anybody Chelsea’s plans,” Laura said. “And I doubt any of the other women would have either.” She shifted toward Chelsea. “I’ve always been so careful about not sharing your mother’s secrets with anybody.”
“Secrets?” Dylan asked.
Laura waved away his question. “Not like… Maeve was well known in this town, at least by sight. I was blessed to truly know her, had since she and Peter started HCI. I held her confidences closely, always. Even things like where she liked to eat lunch and what her daily schedule looked like, I never told anybody anything about her.” She patted Chelsea’s knee again. “I’ve always treated you the same, and I always will.”
“I appreciate that.”
Dylan cleared his throat. “Someone circulated a false memo, or part of one, which makes it look as if Chelsea is planning to relocate the factory out of the country.”
“Oh, dear.”
Dylan tapped his pen on his notebook. “Your name came up as someone working on the relocation plan.”
“My name?” Her eyebrows lifted, and she shifted her gaze from Dylan to Chelsea and back. “How curious. There is no official plan.”
Official? Chelsea started to ask about that, but Dylan pressed on.
“Any idea who might’ve started the rumors?”
“None, but…” Laura focused on Chelsea again. “The idea had come up a few times.”
“Mum would never—”
“Of course not. But the board… There are shareholders to consider. It’s our job to consider the overall health of the company, not the town of Coventry.”
Chelsea scooted away from the older woman in order to face her better. And to distance herself from the idea of it. “Are you in favor of moving the company?”
Laura sighed and leaned against the back of the sofa. “I grew up here. This is my home. I don’t want to do anything that would be bad for Coventry. But as a board member, I have to think of what’s best for HCI.”
“So, yes?” Chelsea clarified.
“I’m… conflicted. The reasoning is valid. Cheaper real estate, cheaper labor. We’re having a hard time competing in the new environment. Our competitors are moving their factories to Vietnam and Bangladesh, where they pay the people—”
“Slave wages,” Chelsea said. “That’s not what Hamilton Clothiers stands for.”
“I know, dear. I know. I’m not saying it’s something the company should do. Just that it doesn’t surprise me that the rumors are flying.”
“A fake memo isn’t a rumor,” Chelsea said. “Somebody’s trying to make it seem as if it’s my idea.”
“That is unfortunate.”
Dylan stood suddenly. Swallowed. Sat again. “Ma’am, somebody has tried not once but twice to murder Chelsea. If his motivation is that he thinks she’s trying to move the factory, then I’d say it’s more than unfortunate.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Any idea who’d do it?” he asked.
She looked toward the ceiling and blinked a few times before facing him again. “I’m afraid not. Though I’ve been on the board for years, I don’t know many people who work for the company, just those in upper management. And even them, I don’t know very well.”
He opened his phone, pressed a few buttons. “You ever heard of a man named Zeke Granger?”
She tilted her head to the side. “I believe…” She turned to Chelsea. “Didn’t he work for HCI years ago? I think he got fired.”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Chelsea said.
“Right. Of course not. You were probably a child. Your mother would have…” Her words trailed, and she took a breath. “You might ask Frank about him. He should know.”
Dylan stood and showed her his phone screen. The image of Zeke Granger stared back at them.
She shook her head. “Nope. Not familiar.”
Dylan took his seat again. “One more question. Any idea what Chelsea’s mother was doing on Mt. Coventry the morning she died?”
Laura shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I have been racking my brain trying to remember if she told me anything, or if there was any reason… Truth is, I can’t think of a single good reason for her to be there at that time of day. It makes no sense at all.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Dylan tried to make himself comfortable on the hard chair. Not only was it as forgiving as a rock, but it was too small for his frame.
If he’d been thinking straight, he’d have taken the padded club chair that was angled toward Chelsea. His only goal at the time had been to put distance between them. He needed to regain the proper perspective about her. A client. Nothing more.
He should have coached Chelsea before they got here, another thing he’d have done if he’d been thinking straight. He hadn’t been thinking about anything but that ice cream cone that nearly landed in Chelsea’s hair.
And the kiss.
He needed to focus. Lord, a little help here? How am I supposed to protect her when I can’t keep my mind under control? When I keep thinking of how amazing, how beautiful, she is?
And she was. The way Chelsea leaned toward Laura, looked her in the eyes. He’d once thought her standoffish, and she seemed to be with strangers, but with friends, she was open, caring, concerned.
She’d been that way with Tabby, too, at first. He’d have to ask Chelsea why there’d been the shift in her feelings about her old friend. All Tabby had done was express support, whatever she chose to do with the factory.
“I wanted to ask you,” Chelsea said to Laura, “did Mum ever tell you why she sent me to boarding school?”
Good question. Chelsea might have a future as an investigator if running a clothing company and being an heiress ever got dull.
Laura pressed her hand against her chest. “But surely you two talked about that?”
“She told me she wanted me to go to her alma mater and to spend some time where she grew up. I don’t know. It seemed like a thin excuse to send your only child across the ocean.”
Laura sat back against the cushions. Her shoulders slumped, and she stared at her lap. “I had the feeling…” She glanced up but couldn’t seem to hold Chelsea’s gaze. “I always thought there was more to it. That maybe she was worried about you being here. Whenever you’d come home for the summer or Christmas, your mother would be so nervous something was going to happen to you. It was as if she didn’t trust herself to take care of you.”
Chelsea blinked a few times. “That doesn’t sound like Mum at all.”
A’tall. Though the subject matter wasn’t amusing, Dylan smiled at the accent, thicker when she was upset.
“Mum was never one to restrict me. I used to run all over the mountain, and she always trusted me to get home safely before dark. And I always did.” Chelsea shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
Laura sat up again, back straight, as if she
’d just realized she’d been slouching. “If only she were here, we could ask her.”
“What about… Do you know why she didn’t want me to come home?”
Laura tilted her head. “What do you mean? She was so eager for you to come home.”
Chelsea’s jaw worked. She started to say something, stopped, looked at Dylan.
He asked, “Can you think of any reason why Mrs. Hamilton wouldn’t have wanted Chelsea to start working at the company yet?”
The woman’s lips turned down as her head shook. “In fact, Maeve told me she was disappointed you’d taken that internship.” She patted Chelsea’s knee again. “Don’t misunderstand. She was excited for you, but she had so looked forward to your returning to Coventry.”
Chelsea opened her mouth to protest, but Dylan spoke first. “Do you think there’s any chance that whatever had Mrs. Hamilton up on the mountain the morning she died is connected to the person trying to kill Chelsea?”
The woman’s eyes slitted, but the look was gone almost before he’d seen it. “I have no idea. Do you think it is?”
He smiled to put her at ease, though he felt far from it. “Too bad. I’d hoped you could do my job for me.” He sent the older woman a wink and settled back in his chair.
Chelsea regarded him a moment. She’d asked the questions he’d wanted her to—without being coached—and now seemed unsure what to say. She turned back to Laura. The two made small talk, and Dylan tried to pay attention, but his mind was spinning.
Maeve Hamilton had lied to both her brother-in-law and her friend about Chelsea’s internship. Both considered themselves to be the woman’s confidant, and, apparently, both were wrong.
Both had assured Chelsea of their loyalty.
Both were on the board at HCI.
Both were divorced. Laura was at least fifteen years older than Frank, so Dylan didn’t assume a romantic entanglement. But maybe another kind of relationship?
He’d ask Chelsea about it when they were alone. At a break in the women’s conversation, he stood. “Do you have a restroom I could use?”
“Sure.” Laura stood and led him back through the kitchen. A typical Colonial—kitchen and common rooms on the main floor, staircase in the middle, bedrooms up. If he weren’t mistaken, there’d be a basement staircase directly below the main one. Laura pointed down the hall between the kitchen and the living room. “There on the right.”
“Thanks.” He stepped into the room, used the facilities, and then stepped out. Chelsea and Laura were still in the sunroom talking.
He walked the other direction, down the hall, and entered the living room. In a typical Colonial, this room would spread from the front of the house to the back, but there was a wall on his right that cut off about a third of the room. To his left, a formal living area complete with Victorian reproduction sofas and fancy tables—the kind of furniture one only looked at but never used.
To his right… The door had been pulled closed but not latched. He pushed it open. An office.
He stepped inside.
The desk was dark wood and scuffed. On the far wall, business and self-help books lined a five-shelf bookcase. How to make money, how to multiply money, and how to manage money. Doubling income, multiplying income, multiple streams of income.
At least the woman was consistent.
On the desk, a laptop computer was closed. Using the hem of his shirt to keep his prints off it, he lifted the top. When the screen lit up, a password box glared at him. He closed the top and moved his attention to the papers.
A credit card bill lay on top. The total… Whoa, over twenty thousand. Still with the hem of his shirt over his fingers, he flipped the paper over. No new charges this month. Looked as if she’d made only a minimum payment the previous month.
All those books on the wall hadn’t helped.
More bills lay beneath the top one.
He turned his attention to the other side of the desk, where a stack of glossy brochures proved Laura wasn’t too worried about those bills. The photo on the first one pictured what looked like a mission one might find in the Southwest or Mexico.
He read the caption there… Not a travel brochure. No, it contained information about a city in central Mexico beneath the caption, Great Employee Pool, Clean Environment, Higher Profits.
He snapped a photo of the brochure with his phone, flipped to the next, and the next. Mexico, Vietnam, Bangladesh, China…
He snapped more photos. Listened.
The voices had stopped.
He hurried out of the office, pulled the door closed, and lifted the phone to his ear.
“That makes sense,” he said to nobody.
Laura Blanchette stepped into the far end of the hall, her thin lips stretched across her face like a rubber band. Had she seen him step out of her office?
He smiled and pointed at his phone, spoke as if he were responding to a question. “Sure, that’ll work.” He turned his back on her, wandered to the window that looked out at the front yard.
Outside, a man held a leash and stared at the house. The man was even older than Laura, maybe in his seventies. The dog, fawn-colored with a curly tail, had to outweigh Chelsea.
Neither looked happy.
He said, for the benefit of Laura, “That sounds good. I’ll call you when I know more.” He pressed his finger to his phone’s blank screen, feeling like an idiot, and then slid the phone into his pocket.
When he turned, Laura was standing in the doorway. “Chelsea just stepped into the powder room. We wondered what happened to you.”
“Got a call from the detective down in Nutfield.” He glanced around her living area. “Hope you don’t mind. I was looking around.” He nodded to the office. “Did you guys put up the wall, or was it like that—”
“My husband built it. After we added the sunroom, this space went largely unused.” She headed back toward the kitchen.
“Good idea.” He followed, hoping his questions were cover enough for his snooping. “How long have you lived here?”
“Over forty years. Raised my daughter here.” She paused in the eat-in kitchen and turned to face him. “She’s been institutionalized since she was a teen.”
“Does she live nearby?”
“Not far.” She offered no other information, just kept that fake smile aimed his way.
Chelsea stepped into the kitchen and looked at him. “We wondered what happened to you.”
“Got a call.” He turned to their hostess. “Great to meet you. We’d better be going.”
Laura’s fake smile held as she walked them to the door. They said their good-byes and stepped into the late afternoon sunshine.
The strange man was still staring at the house.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chelsea stepped onto the front porch of Laura’s house and caught sight of a man on the street, watching them. Beside him, an enormous dog seemed ready to attack.
Dylan took her arm to stop her from going down the porch steps, then stepped in front of her.
She moved around him. The old man’s fedora covered what she assumed was a bald head. His pale skin was dotted with freckles and age spots. He was shorter than she remembered, thinner, too. But the scowl on his face was very familiar. “Mr. Andris?”
“Ayuh.” The man muttered something to the animal beside him, and the dog sat.
She started across the lawn, hobbling on her throbbing foot. The ibuprofen had worn off completely.
Dylan kept pace at her elbow, as if this octogenarian might pose a serious threat. Well, he wouldn’t, but the dog could.
As she neared him, she asked, “How are you?”
He humphed and nodded toward the house. “Laura polishing her broomstick in there?”
Chelsea had forgotten the disdain the two board members had for each other. “Just stirring up some witch’s brew. Nothing to worry about.”
Mr. Andris’s lip twitched, but it came nowhere near a smile.
“This is my friend,
Dylan O’Donnell,” Chelsea said.
Mr. Andris studied Dylan through tortoiseshell glasses. “You bring him back from England?”
Dylan held out his hand. “Technically, my folks hail from County Cork, but I’m a third generation American.”
The old man squinted, shook. “Arthur Andris.”
Dylan glanced her way. Probably recognized the name.
“What were you doing in there?” Mr. Andris asked. “Cooking up plans to wreck Coventry?”
“What?” She glanced at Laura’s house. “Of course not. She doesn’t want the factory to move any more—”
“Ha! That what she told you?” He glared at the house. “The woman’s as crooked as the Saco River.”
“That’s not very nice,” Chelsea said.
“Truth isn’t always nice, young lady.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she focused on the giant dog at Mr. Andris’s feet. “And who is this?”
“Bench.”
What a strange name. “He’s beautiful,” she said.
“What kind of a dog is he?” Dylan asked.
“Akita.” Mr. Andris patted the dog’s giant head. “Weighs one-thirty. If he weren’t so well behaved, he could rip all of our throats out.”
“Well, then.” She backed away a step. “Lovely.”
“He won’t hurt ya. Just don’t look him in the eyes.” Mr. Andris smiled, though to indicate a joke or to indicate that he thought the idea of her getting her throat ripped out was funny, she wasn’t sure. He said, “I thought I saw you drive by earlier. Been waiting to talk to you.”
“Shall we go somewhere, or—?”
“I don’t care if the witch sees me.” He glanced at Chelsea’s walking cast. “But you probably need to get off that foot. Heard someone pushed you off the point up the mountain. That true?”
“It is.”
“How’d you survive?”
Before she could answer, Dylan said, “Let’s go somewhere to talk.”
“I’m fine here,” Chelsea said. “Let’s just”—she nodded to a maple tree at the edge of Mrs. Blanchette’s yard—“get out of this hot sun.”
They stepped under the shade of the tree, the dog’s claws clipping on the asphalt.
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