Seeds of Revenge

by Wendy Tyson

  Megan leaned in for a closer look. “The plant where the accident occurred was using phosgene as part of their chemical process. It was industrial strength, and a large amount was released.” She took the pesticide container from King. “This doesn’t look like it’s been used in years. And while phosgene can be a byproduct of certain solvents, why would it be used accidentally in Paul’s bedroom? And why would the windows be taped shut?”

  King couldn’t hide his disappointment—or his sense of resignation. “That’s what I was afraid you would say.” The ceiling above them creaked, and his eyes followed the bits of plaster that flurried from the ceiling. “I guess I was just hoping.” He shrugged. “So this stuff could cause phosgene as a byproduct, but not in sufficient quantity to kill someone? Does that mean we’re looking for someone with an industrial connection?”

  Megan thought about his question. She had wondered the same thing: had the killer pilfered phosgene from a chemical or pharmaceutical plant? “Not necessarily. It’s possible to die from phosgene produced as part of a chemical reaction, and the killer could have purposefully mixed certain chemicals to create that reaction. Of course releasing an industrial supply would be the surest way to cause death. Although I would think most companies would report missing phosgene given its toxicity.”

  “Not if the person who owned the company killed Paul. Or if Paul’s killer otherwise had control of the company’s supply.”

  “An expert,” Megan said. “Or someone with resources.”

  They looked at each other across the flashlight beam. The Love Chemist came to Megan’s mind. King’s somber expression suggested he was thinking about the young entrepreneur as well.

  Fifteen

  It was after ten that evening when everyone finally left the farm. Bibi, still a little off from her fall, seemed tired, so Megan suggested she head to bed early while Megan cleaned up the kitchen. Bibi refused, of course, but by ten thirty, she was dozing by the television, her head lolling to the side. Megan placed a pillow behind her and spread a coverlet over her knees. She turned down the television volume but left it on; Bibi liked the background noise.

  Tired but restless, Megan headed to her study where she turned on her laptop. Sadie and Gunther curled at her feet in perfect mirror images of one another. Megan was thankful for the alone time—and the quiet. Until Gunther started snoring.

  Megan glanced at Aunt Sarah’s novel, To Kill Again, still sitting on her desk. She was apprehensive to start it for some reason, feeling, she supposed, like it would open a Pandora’s Box of fear—about her aunt, about the type of person who kills another person based on a fictional work. Thinking of the evening spent with Bobby, and the puzzle he had on his hands, she couldn’t very well ignore the book. Perhaps it would offer some clues.

  Megan opened a search engine and input Paul Fox’s name. She was curious about his history. Why did people seem to have such a visceral reaction to him? What about those old articles Alvaro had found? There seemed to be so many layers. A man who would threaten Aunt Sarah, belittle his daughter, dominate his wife. Yet his son seemed quite attached, Merry respected him enough to invite him here, and Megan had to admit—Paul had seemed charming. Was he as cruel as Becca made him out to be? Or was Becca a poor judge of character? She was interested in knowing more—but beyond that, she wanted to reassure herself that Paul’s death was targeted at him—and no one else.

  Isn’t that always the way, she thought. We tell each other stories to avoid the reality that these things could happen to us—or worse, to the ones we love. Life was so uncertain. She thought about her late husband, Mick, too young to die in the service of his country. You live, you love, you hope, Megan thought. There are no promises.

  A general Google search came up with all of the hits Megan would have expected. Paul’s professional LinkedIn page, updated to reflect his multiple graduate degrees and years of experience treating trauma victims. Mentions on professional pages. A few hits for sites that related to voter registration, real estate, addresses. All-in-all, nothing unusual.

  Megan found Paul’s professional website. The only thing noteworthy was that he had no longer been practicing psychology. Rather, he had been writing about it and lending his insights as a “consultant” to companies looking for financing. Megan figured there was more money in industry than private practice—but investing? She was also surprised to see he only had a Master’s Degree and not a PhD. An impressive set of secondary institutions to his name—but he lacked the terminal degree for many psychologists. Maybe collecting from insurance companies proved too difficult, necessitating the switch to business? Otherwise why end a practice that had been his lifeblood for so long?

  Megan toggled back to Paul’s LinkedIn page. Nothing there indicated why Paul left private practice. One thing on his LinkedIn site did catch her eye. He’d listed himself as an investor and noted that he was looking for small businesses in which to invest. That seemed quite a switch from private practice as well.

  Megan rubbed the back of her tired neck with one hand. She took a few deep breaths, trying to quiet her cluttered mind. Gunther changed position, providing a momentary lull in his snoring. In the quiet, Megan heard the wind blowing against the old window panes, she heard the water gurgling through the house’s ancient radiators. She heard the sound her blood made as it pulsed through her veins.

  And then she heard the unmistakable screech of glass shattering.

  Megan flew down the stairs behind the dogs, her fingers dialing 911 as she ran. Gunther was using his big boy bark and the noise awakened Bibi, who was standing in the hallway looking dazed.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Break in. Go back in the parlor and close the doors. Stay out of sight.”

  “Megan—”

  “Bibi, please.” The 911 operator answered and Megan explained what was happening. “We need a car to this address. Hurry.”

  She heard another of Gunther’s deep barks, then a high-pitched scream. Bibi and Megan looked at one another. Megan recognized the voice—and clearly Bibi did too.

  “I don’t know if she’s alone,” Megan whispered. “Or why she’s here.” Megan handed her grandmother her cell phone. “Call King. His number is on speed dial.” When Bibi looked at her blankly, Megan took the phone, quickly hit the digits, and handed the phone back. “Just press the green button.”

  “But what will you do if she’s violent?”

  Megan heard one of Gunther’s warning growls, followed by a whimper. “I don’t think we need to worry about that.”

  Once Bibi was back in the parlor with the French doors closed, Megan made her way down the hall, toward the kitchen, where the sound was coming from. She flipped on a light, her heart racing. The first thing she saw was Gunther. He was standing over someone with the fur on his back raised and his ears back. Warning posture—but not threatening. Sadie stood behind him, and she looked as perplexed as Bibi had. With a quick glance, Megan saw that someone had shattered the glass to the door leading into the kitchen. Shards lay on the floor, and small dots of blood speckled the old flooring.

  The sound of weeping pushed her forward.

  Becca Fox sat against the kitchen counters, her knees up against her chest and her palms forward toward Gunther. Her hair was in complete disarray, a cacophony of curls circling her reddened face. She wore blue and gray flannel pajamas and dirty white slippers. Her right hand was bleeding—probably from breaking the glass—but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “Becca,” Megan whispered. “Are you alone?”

  Becca didn’t respond, and Megan asked again, more sharply this time.

  “Yes,” Becca muttered. Her face was shiny with tears. When she looked up, Megan saw wide eyes and the unmistakable glaze of terror.

  Sirens wailed in the distance.

  Megan placed a hand on Gunther, letting him know to stand down. He did, although he sta
yed close to Megan’s side. Sadie edged close enough to Becca to lick the distraught woman’s face. Becca wrapped her arms around the dog and buried her face in her fur, her sobs shaking her entire body. Sadie stood there, stoic.

  Megan knelt down. “Becca, you’re bleeding. Let me see your hand.”

  Becca shook her head. She looked up. Streaks of mascara had laid tracks on her ivory skin. “I’m next. Don’t you get it? He’s after me. I’m next.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I’m next.”

  “Who is he, Becca? Tell me.”

  “My father.”

  “Your father is dead. He can’t hurt you.”

  “I’m next. I know, I know, I know…” Her “knows” trailed off in a set of high-pitched wails.

  Megan was no psychologist, and clearly Becca was terror-stricken, but there was something more going on. A psychotic episode? Bibi rushed into the room and Megan asked her to retrieve a blanket. A few moments later, they managed to release Sadie from Becca’s grip and they wrapped the fleece around Becca’s shoulders. They were just cleaning up her hand when Bobby King arrived.

  He and two uniformed officers—one male, one female—entered formally, hands on their holsters.

  “No need for that,” Bibi said. “It’s Becca Fox.” Bibi walked closer to the police officers. “She’s in a state,” she said softly. “She needs help.”

  King nodded, and the female officer removed a set of handcuffs.

  “I don’t think you need them,” Megan said, alarmed. “She’s distraught and scared. I don’t know why she broke in, but clearly she was in a panic. She needs help.” When the officer came closer, “I’m not pressing charges, Bobby. She needs an ambulance, not a cell.”

  “We have a paramedic on the way. They’re meeting us at the station.”

  Bibi moved protectively in front of Becca, who was looking at the ground, holding her injured hand, and whimpering. “Bobby King, this girl needs a hospital, not the police.”

  King took an audible breath. His beefy face looked lined and haggard. His blond hair was mussed, his clothes rumpled. He clearly hadn’t been asleep when Bibi called him. It looked like he hadn’t slept in several days.

  “Megan, Bonnie…we were in the process of arresting Becca when she ran. She absconded with her aunt’s car and apparently came here.”

  Megan peeked out the window. Merry’s Volvo sat half on the driveway, half on a small snow bank. Megan questioned King with her eyes.

  “We arrived at Merry’s with a warrant. She refused my officers entry. Then she sprinted outside and left the premises.” King clenched a hand by his side. “I have two officers at Merry’s house now with a search warrant. We’ll see what they find. But the fact remains—she ran from the law, Megan. We’ll get her treatment once she’s in custody. She’s under arrest, though, and she’s coming with me.”

  Sixteen

  Megan wasn’t the least bit surprised to find Merry Chance in the farmhouse kitchen the next morning when Megan came in from chores. She was surprised to find her deep in conversation with Bibi, who was clutching a wad of tissues and who looked as though she’d been watching the Hallmark channel again.

  “Good morning,” Megan said on her way to the sink. She scrubbed her hands and dried them, cognizant of the sudden silence. “Merry, how is Becca?”

  Bibi and Merry exchanged a glance. “Megan, Merry needs some help.”

  After the previous night’s drama, Megan was expecting Merry to ask for the name of a good local lawyer. Or maybe information about jail procedures.

  Instead, Bibi said, “Merry wants you to talk to Bobby. She thinks he’s going to charge Becca for the murder of her father.”

  Megan sat down, hard. This didn’t surprise her. She wished it did. “He found something at your house?”

  Merry dabbed at her eyes with a fresh tissue Bibi had placed on the table. “I guess. He wouldn’t tell me anything. But when I inquired this morning, he said they are holding her temporarily. And that she needs a psychiatric evaluation.”

  Another non-surprise. “I don’t imagine he can tell you much else, Merry.”

  “He can tell her how long they plan to hold Becca. And what she’s being charged with.” Bibi crossed her arms over her brown “Winsome Blues” concert sweatshirt. “The girl has issues. They can’t keep her indefinitely without charges. I know that from Murder, She Wrote.”

  “Yeah, well, Winsome is starting to feel like Cabot Cove,” Merry murmured. She turned her attention to Megan. “Becca is on medication for some mood issues. She has been ever since Blanche died. Her mother’s death was hard on her. Hard on everyone, but especially Becca. I had hoped…well, I had hoped this love potion business would be the boost she needed to make a fresh start. I’m afraid, though, that The Love Chemist was her undoing with the police.”

  “They found chemicals?”

  “I don’t know what they found, but they hauled a lot of stuff from her room. Along with her computer.” Merry seemed to melt into the chair. “First her father goes, now this. Everyone will think we’re that kind of family. It’s my fault. If only I’d stayed out of it. And Luke…he’s like a caged animal right now. Pawing at the earth, angry.” Talking about Luke seemed to lend Merry strength. She sat forward, white knuckles grasping white tissues. “Please get to Bobby before Luke does. Luke is protective of his sister and not completely rational right now. Tell Bobby that Becca is innocent. She hated her father, yes—but she would never, ever have done something so heinous.”

  “I can tell him, Merry, but he’s the Chief of Police. He has to investigate the murder and if his evidence led him to Becca—”

  “That’s just it, Megan. Of course it will lead him to Becca. She hated her father, and she made no attempt to hide it. But that doesn’t make her guilty. And while he’s sniffing around my niece, the real killer is getting away, quite literally, with murder.”

  She had a point. Assuming Becca was innocent. “Your niece seemed very distraught when she broke in here last night. She kept saying she was next, seemed to think her father was after her. She looked almost crazed. Is it possible someone was after her, Merry?”

  In a soft voice, Bibi said, “Tell her why you’re so sure she’s innocent, Meredith. Tell Megan. Go on.”

  Merry turned toward Bibi. She seemed about to say something but stopped. Instead, she stood up and walked toward the door that led onto the porch. She reached one hand out and touched the window that had been broken last night, tracing the outline of the cardboard and plastic Megan had secured to keep the cold December air out.

  “I can’t,” Merry said finally. “You tell her whatever you want.”

  With that, Merry pushed open the door and left.

  “She has problems,” Bibi said once the door was closed. “Adjustment issues. Has ever since Blanche died.”

  “I figured that. Her unhealthy obsession with her mother’s death. Her insistence that her father is the culprit. But why is Merry so certain she can’t be the killer?” Megan’s eyes narrowed. “And what were you two talking about? I felt like I’d interrupted something deep.”

  “I never was a big fan of Merry’s. Too gossipy. But family is family, as you know, and we do stuff for family because we have to. Because it’s proper. That’s all Merry’s doing right now—looking after her own.”

  Megan knew this was headed somewhere she wouldn’t like. Whenever Bibi started with the “family protects family” speech, it meant someone had done something stupid.

  Megan sat down. “What was Merry so reluctant to tell me?”

  “She lied to the police.”

  “Oh. Great.”

  “Because of a man.”

  “Merry told me last time she was here. She’s afraid Becca is making poor relationship choices. What does that have to do with lying to the police?”

  Bibi shook
her head. “No, no. It turns out the man is not a boyfriend. Merry overheard a phone conversation between this man and Becca the night Paul was killed. She heard Paul’s name mentioned over and over again. Becca seemed distraught. She left the house.”

  “Doesn’t that lend credence to the fact that Becca could have hurt Paul? She had motive, and if she left the house, she may have had opportunity.

  Bibi shook her head. “Merry followed her. She saw her go in the direction of town. The opposite direction of Paul’s rental house. She saw her meet with this guy. Then she lost them for a very short while—maybe twenty minutes, not enough time to get to Paul’s rental in that snow. Next thing she knows, Becca is back at the house. So you see? She didn’t kill her father.”

  “Did Merry hear what they were talking about?”

  “Only that it had to do with Paul. And that whatever this man was doing or not doing was upsetting to Becca.”

  “Did she get a look at the guy?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Bibi, you realize that even if Becca didn’t physically kill Paul, she could have been an accomplice. This doesn’t necessarily prove Becca’s innocence. And she could have done something later, after the encounter.”

  “But the existence of this other man calls into question her guilt. It means there’s another possibility.”

  Bibi had a point. Megan was quiet for a moment. “She needs to tell Bobby this herself.”

  “She can’t.”

  “Why, Bibi?”

  Bibi looked torn. Her bright eyes danced, deciding, Megan knew, between what felt right and what was right. “Because she lied to King. Before you get too lawyerly on me, at the time, he asked her if she could confirm Becca’s whereabouts for that night. She’d told him Becca was upstairs in her room, reading or working. She didn’t tell him about this because she was afraid it looked suspicious and she thought it was nothing. But now she’s afraid to go back to him. He’ll think she lied about other things.”