I finally found a tiny article that detailed the harrowing accident that claimed the lives of Knox’s parents, though I couldn’t find their obituaries anywhere, not even when I searched “Owl Monroe” instead of Carlton. How did he get a nickname like Owl?
Thick fog was blamed for a fatal accident that occurred in Cherry Grove late last night. Owl and Angela Monroe, who recently moved to the area from California, were returning from a charity fundraiser at the Cherry Grove Country Club when their car ran off the road on Route 113’s hairpin curve and hit a tree. Police have determined that the driver was not under the influence of drugs or alcohol. The Monroes leave behind a young son. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations can be made to the Cherry Grove Art League.
I was snapped out of my trance when a stack of books hit the desk in front of me. I lifted my gaze to meet Knox Monroe’s blue eyes. “Oh! You found more books!”
The corners of his lips curled up. “I did. And I guess I’m coming back tomorrow with my paints. Ms. Dupree is commissioning a piece from me.” The word “commissioning” bloomed with pride as it slipped out of his mouth.
“Wow, is that so?” I started to scan the barcodes on the books he selected. This time he was studying painting techniques instead of art history. Interesting.
“I can’t talk about it, though.” He fought off a full smile. “I’m not allowed.”
“Gotcha. Well, it’s still pretty exciting.”
“Better than picking up garbage,” he said. “That’s what the cop said I’d have to do for my community service.”
“Lucky you!” I nodded and stuck the due date slip in the front of the top book on the stack. “You can have these for two weeks.”
“Maybe they’ll have a placement for me by then,” he sighed. “It’s not going to work out with the Shaws.”
“It’s not?”
“They don’t want me,” he deadpanned. His expression was neutral, like he wasn’t even fazed by it.
I was surprised we were having this conversation, that he’d told me such a thing so openly. Maybe because I hadn’t judged him. Maybe because I’d been starstruck by his artwork and thus gained his trust.
“Do you know anything about your family, Knox? Your extended family?”
“If you’re asking if I have any relatives who could take me in, the answer is no.” Again, he said it matter-of-factly.
“Really? No aunts or uncles? No grandparents?”
“My parents were only children, and their parents died when I was young.”
“Wow. Okay.”
He shrugged like the whole thing was as interesting as watching paint dry. Though, for an artist, maybe watching paint dry was exciting, in a way, a masterpiece edging toward completion.
“Did you know your grandparents?” I couldn’t help but wonder who raised him. How did he have the name Monroe?
“I don’t remember them. Though I heard my grandfather was into art. My dad was too.”
“Nice. That’s really cool, Knox.” I kept waiting for the tiniest bit of emotion about his family to cross his face, for there to be even the slightest clue he’d suffered such devastating loss in his young life, but there was nothing. The doors to his heart were chained and locked, and the key seemed to be long gone.
“Do you need a ride home?”
“Home,” he sneered, rolling his eyes. “I was gonna walk. It’s not that far.”
“Hey, I have a crazy idea.” I suddenly felt the Spirit move me, so to speak.
One ginger eyebrow arched as he stood looking at me, his arms folded across his chest like another barrier. He didn’t want to act interested, but the slightest hint of intrigue flickered in his eyes.
“Today’s my birthday,” I announced.
“Oh,” was all he said.
“I’m going to my parents’ house for dinner and cake. My brother and his wife are going to be there, and their twin sons. They’re a little younger than you, but…might be fun? And there’s cake!”
“You’re inviting me to your birthday party?” The incredulous look on his face was priceless.
“Yeah. Unless you don’t like cake. Or good food. My mom is an amazing cook. And her chocolate cake has won all kinds of awards,” I tempted him. “I can call your mom right now and ask if it’s okay.”
“It seems kinda weird,” was his best retort.
It did seem weird. I had no rebuttal for that. “Well, it’s up to you.”
“Would it enhance your birthday?” The words that came out of his mouth sounded like they belonged to an adult. It caught me off guard that he would concern himself with what I wanted. I never expected that.
“Actually, yeah. It would enhance my birthday.”
“Fine, then,” he dropped his arms, “I’m in.”
“Hello? Mom? Dad?” I announced myself as I came in through the garage door. “I brought a friend with me for dinner.”
My dad appeared in the mud room off the garage as I stepped inside. “Hey, Sunny Bunny, Molly,” he said, expecting my best friend to be my guest.
“No, Dad, this is Knox; he’s a friend of mine I met at the library. Knox, this is my dad, Mr. Baker.” The teen boy peeked out from around my ample frame and gave a half-hearted wave. I could tell he was on guard. There was a big difference in his posture from when we were standing at my desk in the library and right now in my dad’s presence.
“Oh, hi there, Knox. Nice to meet you.” My dad extended his hand for a shake, and I nudged my head, encouraging Knox to dig deep to find his social graces.
One thing I had learned in our short time of interacting: his manners were in there; he just had to choose to use them. This was not an ill-mannered kid. This was a hurting kid. Big difference.
We followed my dad inside the house, his bellowing voice carrying into the kitchen where my mother was no doubt putting the final touches on our dinner. “Sunny Bunny brought a friend for her birthday dinner!”
“A friend?” My mother’s pitch went sky-high. It was obvious to me the type of “friend” she was expecting. When her gaze fell on Knox, her disappointment could not be disguised. “And who do we have here?”
“Mom, this is Knox Monroe. Knox, this is my mother, Mrs. Baker,” I introduced.
“Oh! This is the child you were talking about with Chief James at the funeral dinner,” my mother gushed. “I…I’m…” I could tell she was getting ready to say something off-the-cuff, something wildly inappropriate, but she quickly redirected her line of thought. “I’m delighted to meet you, Knox. I hope you’re hungry! We have pot roast, Sunshine’s favorite, and my award-winning chocolate layer cake!”
“I’ve heard all about the cake,” Knox said, managing a semi-charming smile for my mother.
I could tell Mom was just about to pull me aside to grill me when my brother’s crew came bustling in the door to the garage. “Aunt Sunshine!” my nephews yelled at approximately a zillion decibels as they careened toward me, dragging behind them a bouquet of balloons. The largest one read “Happy Birthday!”
“Oh my gosh, thank you!” I gushed, giving them both squeezes and taking the balloons from their little hands. “Jake, Drew, this is my friend Knox. You wanna go show him your video games in the basement? I bet he would like to play before dinner.”
“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” my mother announced.
My sister-in-law, Izzy, threw her arms around me. “Happy birthday, Sunshine. The boys insisted on the balloons. They don’t think it’s a real birthday without them.”
Knox looked a little uneasy as he followed my nephews toward the basement stairs. I gave him a thumbs-up and a smile of encouragement.
“All these people are probably a little overwhelming for him,” I theorized as my entire family stood there gaping at me.
“Then why did you bring him?” my mother snapped. But she did it with a smile plastered on her face, a trademark Nancy Baker move. “I’ve been praying for this child, as I promised, but I don’t know that you hanging out
with him is an answer to prayer…”
“Didn’t you say he tried to steal from the library?” my father asked.
My brother’s eyebrows flew up into his hairline. “What? He’s a juvenile delinquent, and you just sent him to play with my kids?”
Izzy cleared her throat. “I’m sure Sunshine has a perfectly good reason for bringing him, and it’s her birthday, so maybe we should cut her some slack.”
It was my birthday; that much was true. Did I have a perfectly good reason, as my sister-in-law so graciously alluded to? I wasn’t sure I did. “Knox lost his parents in a car accident about a year ago,” I explained. “He’s had some issues getting adjusted to a foster family. He’s been in a few homes now, and nothing has worked out.”
“Doesn’t he have grandparents who can take him?” my mother gasped. “Aunts? Uncles?”
I kept shaking my head with every suggestion she made. She was down to cousins and family friends as I internally debated whether or not to tell my family of his connection to Willa Bryce Monroe.
I decided against it.
“He’s a sweet kid, just misunderstood. He’s doing some community service work at the library,” I explained. “He was there today, and he seemed reticent to go home to his temporary foster family, so I invited him to dinner. It’s not a big deal, okay?”
“I think it’s sweet,” Izzy stated, giving me a nod of support.
“You always brought stray cats home,” my father pointed out. “I guess this isn’t any different.”
“Dad! This is a human!” I reminded him. He could be so…annoyingly analytical sometimes. No wonder my brother was so much like him. “He’s not a stray cat. And, by the way, neither Paige nor Bond were strays either.”
“They were just rescues,” my brother chimed in.
“I thought it was my birthday, so could I maybe avoid getting attacked for my life choices tonight?” I huffed out a frustrated sigh.
The oven timer dinged, so I was saved by the roast. My mother pulled it out, and the aroma tickled my nose with its savory goodness. I didn’t know what was going to happen tonight, but it felt like I was doing a nice thing by inviting Knox here. A Christlike thing, in fact. And I wasn’t selfishly doing it to try to probe deeper into his family history, in hopes of solving his great-grandmother’s murder—no. If I gleaned any information at all, it would be purely coincidental. Serendipitous, in fact.
Right, Lord? Back me up here. I have nothing but the best intentions.
Fifteen
I was pretty sure I was going insane. The case was making me downright crazy. I’m beyond needing Jesus to take the wheel. Right now I just want Him to hold me and tell me I’m gonna be okay.
I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, realizing there was no way Carlton II could be the father of Matilda’s baby. She’d told me he was, but it made absolutely no sense. I knew from investigating the Mystery at the Marina and from Jada that Carlton II was in his early forties. Carlton III had been born when his parents were still in high school.
So Carlton II was around fifteen years younger than Matilda. He was a toddler when she claimed he fathered her child.
I pulled my laptop off the nightstand beside me. I’d wanted to continue reading when I got home from my parents’ house last night, but by the time I took Knox home and stayed for a few moments to chat with Mrs. Shaw, his foster mom, I didn’t have the energy to delve back into the journal. I’d been working on three hours of sleep all day as it was, and, trust me, at forty-three, that was nowhere near enough shut-eye to digest Mrs. Monroe’s often rambling thoughts.
The questions looming in my mind were:
Who really fathered Matilda’s baby?
Was Knox her grandson and Mrs. Monroe’s great-grandson?
If not, how did he end up with both Boxbury and Monroe family names?
I started at the last entry I remembered before I drifted off:
February 14th
Valentine’s Day and Carlton did not disappoint. A dozen red roses showed up on my doorstep today. He is a changed man and doesn’t seem to remember why I was angry with him all those years ago. He also doesn’t seem to remember the role Piers played, his wife, his elder son, or my daughter.
I don’t know if he’s suffering from dementia, or the honey has gotten the best of him.
March 25th
Spring is flirting with us. My rhododendrons are tight buds now, but by May, the bees will be collecting their nectar, and a fresh new batch of honey will be manufactured. The question is, shall I continue to have it delivered to Carlton’s home? He seems to enjoy it, but at what cost to his health?
The changes in his psyche, though, are welcome as far as I’m concerned. It’s so lovely to forget the past and to reclaim what we once had. I find myself torn between wanting to expose the truth to vindicate myself, and wanting to enjoy what might be the last happy days of my life.
April 30th
I’m heartbroken over what has become of my beloved library. The dark witch who works there has stolen the donations myself and the other philanthropic-minded citizens of Bryce Beach so generously gave to support the cause. I hope she is brought to justice soon!
Carlton wants to meet to discuss the information I received recently. I’m absolutely livid that he expects me to continue covering for him now that I know someone’s very life is at stake. I believe it’s time for another chapter in my memoir.
The deadline is looming, and my attorney doesn’t know if I’m able to get out of the contract without incurring a hefty penalty for breaking it. I’d much rather the proceeds of my publication go to right the wrongs that were made so many years ago.
June 2nd
I am pleased to report the library funds have been recovered, and the guilty parties will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. It’s nice to see someone getting their just desserts.
I have decided to move forward with the publication. The contract deadline is July first, so I’m going through my final draft, making the necessary edits and revisions. I have included the new chapter about my heir, and I’m thrilled I’ll be able to finally unburden myself of these secrets in time.
July 15th
The publishers have received my manuscript. Just in case, I’ve hidden another copy at my wildflower hive. Carlton will never find it there.
August 1st
My story is going to be told no matter what happens to me. The Good Lord could call me home this very day, yet I will still be exonerated even as I rest in eternal peace. My son and daughter will finally understand the choices I made. Impossible choices. And the ones who have suffered as a consequence of the affair, decades later still mired in the ramifications of our choices, will thrive.
Carlton is growing increasingly agitated. I’m sure the honey is to blame. He was docile and sweet for those few last months we shared. Now he has turned against me because I refuse to break my contract for the memoir.
My agent tells me my publication date will be announced this fall.
That was it. The last entry, written just days before her death. But now I knew where the memoir was—the wildflower hive. And I intended to find it.
I couldn’t get back to sleep after finishing the journal, so I slid on my swimsuit, grabbed my hat, sunglasses and sunscreen, and headed to the shore.
When the sun cracked like an egg over the horizon, my soul was filled with a sense of duty and determination the likes of which I’d never experienced. Yes, I’d felt compelled to solve my two prior cases, but what I felt now was so much more intense. Mrs. Monroe’s legacy was at stake, and apparently someone else’s life. I had a feeling I knew who it was—I just wanted to see it confirmed in that memoir.
I spread a blanket on the cool sand as foamy waves rolled onto the shore. I glanced down the beach, past the marina, where Mrs. Monroe’s body had been found on Shore Drive. A spiky feeling of unease prickled at me as I sat there watching the sunrise ripen over the water. If I started walking n
ow, I could probably reach the house at 725 before anyone woke up and discovered me.
I slathered my face and shoulders with sunblock, even though the sun was only a thin crimson line hovering over the water. It was not even six in the morning, after all. Not even the birds were fully awake. After adjusting my hat and gathering my blanket and bag, I took off toward the private expanse of beach a half mile or so from where I’d been perched to witness the burgeoning dawn.
As I walked, the sun rose higher, and everything I’d read in the journals, plus what I’d learned from Matilda began to coalesce. I still couldn’t understand how Carlton II could have fathered Matilda’s baby, but I had a theory that all would be explained in the memoir, and that the secret Mrs. Monroe was harboring had something to do with the baby and the Boxburys in general.
I wasn’t sure what walking to the scene of the crime was going to solve. Surely it had been cleaned up, stripped of any potential evidence, but maybe just being there, I’d get a sense of where to go next.
A man had been arrested and charged with murder. I wasn’t sure what evidence the state police found that led them in that direction, but everything in Mrs. Monroe’s journal implicated Carlton Boxbury. He had the motive, and the journal proved they’d been in contact. It wasn’t hard to believe a man of his wealth had the means—a gun and a boat. He did own a seafood company, after all, and I’d been out on their boats myself. And he had the opportunity. There was no sign of a struggle at her house. It made me think she went willingly with her murderer. If he’d shown up at her door asking her to go on a boat ride, she likely wouldn’t have thought anything of it. It was completely plausible that he shot her and dumped her body into the sea. He was elderly, yes, but Mrs. Monroe was a tiny, frail woman.
After fifteen minutes of walking in the soft sand, leaving a trail of footprints behind me, I arrived on the private beach that scalloped the edge of Shore Drive. House number 725 looked familiar from when I was here a couple weeks ago. Looking up at the house, it was impossible to see if anyone was stirring inside. The entire back façade was windows, and they were so dark and shiny, there was no way I could see in. I would just have to take my chances.
Dangerous Curves Boxed Set 1: 3 Cozy Christian Mysteries Page 45