by Wendy Tyson
King stood. “Yes. Becca paid him to follow you and leave the book. He attacked you because you caught him by surprise. He couldn’t take a chance that you’d see him.”
Bibi’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why would she do that? It doesn’t sound like Becca at all.”
“She wanted us to figure out what was happening,” Megan said. “She knew the books were part of Luke’s plan. By then she knew something was going on but couldn’t tell anyone because Luke would have hurt Merry in retaliation.” Megan glanced at Bobby, who nodded his agreement. “She wanted to give us a concrete clue about what Luke was up to. First the newspaper clippings, then the book. It was risky, but it worked.”
King nodded. “She wanted you to figure it out. That was the first time we picked her up, and she couldn’t get to you herself. Plus, Luke was threatening her. If she’d said something herself, Merry would have been in danger.”
Denver entered the dining room. Spotting King, Bibi, and Megan, he joined them by the table. He leaned in and gave Megan a kiss, holding her gaze for a few seconds longer than necessary.
“Bonnie, that turkey is calling us. Shall I fetch the others?”
Bibi nodded. “Thank you, Denver.”
“Ta, Bonnie. Thank you. For this,” he waved at the table, “for this,” he walked over to Megan, “and for having us all here together.” He put his arms around Megan’s shoulders protectively. “And I’m happy to say that Eloise is doing better. The doctors think any impairment is temporary.”
Megan hugged him. Bibi grinned.
“All the more reason to celebrate,” King said.
Bibi busied herself straightening the red cloth napkins and adjusting silverware that was already pin straight. Denver gave her a kiss and left the room, followed by King. When Megan moved to help Bibi with the remaining table settings that also didn’t need adjustment, Bibi laid her hand on Megan’s arm.
“They’re fine,” she said. “We’re ready to eat.”
Megan sighed. “I know.”
“You were almost killed.”
“But I’m fine.”
“You did a brave thing, Megan.”
“Stabbing Luke…feeling that knife in my hand. I don’t think I will ever forget that, Bibi.”
Her grandmother nodded. “It’s the kind of thing that changes a person. But whether it changes you for the better or worse is up to you.”
Megan looked away, wiping her eyes.
Bibi squeezed her arm. “Mick would be proud.”
“You think so?” Megan’s voice was husky.
“I know so.” Bibi reached up and gave her granddaughter a kiss. “And I’m proud too.”
Forty-One
There was little more depressing than a hospital on Christmas Day. Walking quickly through the building, Megan noticed the holiday decorations—silver menorahs, Christmas trees, holly-studded garlands—that marked the nurses’ stations and the waiting rooms. Like her drive to Sarah’s cottage on that fateful day, the decorations didn’t buoy her spirits. Rather, they reminded her that not everyone was feeling fortunate on such a celebrated occasion.
Megan reached Sarah’s hall. She carried a large bouquet of mixed flowers and a box of chocolates from Bibi, and she hid behind the flowers, trying not to see the desperation in the faces of the other visitors walking the floor. The hospital smelled of disinfectant and sickness, and Megan’s black boot heels clicked their way across the tiled floor. Megan searched for room 522, anxious to see Sarah and get home to Bibi and Denver. To that hot bath and a hot lasagna and her two favorite dogs.
She found Sarah’s room across from the nurses’ station. A red-haired nurse with a pert nose and large bosom flashed her a warm, sympathetic smile. Megan managed to smile back.
“Sarah Birch?” Megan said.
“Right in there. I think she’s sleeping finally.”
Megan thanked her.
“Popular woman. You can go in too.”
Too? Megan nodded and walked into room 522. She was expecting one of the Historical Society members, or maybe Merry. But the woman who sat by Sarah’s bed was a stranger.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Megan said. She placed the flowers and candy on the bedside table. “I’ll come back.” When she looked back at the bed, she noticed the visitor studying her. The woman had black hair streaked with gray. It was pulled into a loose bun and wisps of hair framed a broad face and full lips. Her cheekbones were high, her skin creamy-pink.
“Megan?” the woman whispered.
Megan backed to the door. She looked from the bed to the woman and back again. Sarah was asleep. She would forgive Megan’s cowardice.
But Megan’s feet rooted her in place.
The woman stood. Megan noticed wide hips, narrow shoulders. A black dress that was both modern and modest. A tight smile and eyes so sad they looked like pools of deepest regret.
“Megan.”
Megan’s heart raced, her breath slowed. She felt light-headed and euphoric at the same time. She’d waited her whole adult life for this moment. So many things ran through her head. Some kind, most not. Where were you when I needed you after my first breakup? When I got married? When Mick died?
Megan had an entire conversation with Charlotte Birch in the minute that she stood there, mute, staring at the woman who gave birth to her but who hadn’t been part of her life since Megan was a child.
“Megan?” the woman said again. She took a step closer. Held out a hand, took it back. “I’m Charlotte.”
“How is she?” Megan managed.
Charlotte turned back toward the bed. Her gaze was loving as she fixed a blanket, straightened a pillow. “Resting. The man who did this to her gave her a cocktail of Rohypnol and a few other drugs. Her body didn’t react well.” Charlotte smiled. “I heard what you did. Saving her life.”
That man who was now in the same hospital, in a room guarded by police, Megan thought.
Charlotte smiled. “It was very brave.”
Megan managed another nod.
Charlotte picked up a black wool coat from a nearby chair. “Sit, please. I was just leaving. I have a train to catch.”
Don’t go, Megan thought. But her voice had left her a dozen thoughts ago.
As though viewing a movie, Megan watched as her mother pulled on her coat, buttoned it with long, slim fingers, perfectly manicured nails. She was a polished version of Megan. Polished and demure. Sophisticated. Megan looked down at her jeans and vintage gray sweater, at the boots she wore over thick wool socks.
But Charlotte’s eyes were on her face. And aside from the deep green pools of regret, she looked happy to see Megan.
“Merry Christmas, Megan,” she said. She held a square black bag close to her side. “I’d hoped maybe I’d see you. I thought…if I see her, what would I say? How would I explain?” Her eyes beseeched Megan’s. “But now that you’re here, I know some things can’t be explained. Or, perhaps, forgiven.”
Megan stood there, watching her. For someone whose prior career depended on words, they were failing her now.
Charlotte edged toward the door. “Well, maybe I’ll see you again.”
Megan pushed herself forward. She took a step, stopped. Someone in the corridor was crying and the sound echoed through institutional green halls. “I’d like that,” she managed.
Charlotte’s eyes brightened. With a final nod, she left.
Megan wanted to run after her, tackle her, and ask her a million questions. She thought of Becca and the debilitating pain of losing a mother. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe Megan could still have hers.
She sat down next to Sarah. Her aunt’s eyes fluttered but didn’t open. Megan took her aunt’s hand, squeezed gently, and whispered, “Merry Christmas.”
Sarah squeezed back. The crying in the hall stopped. Megan saw the cards on the table next to
the flower bouquet. One was addressed to Sarah. The other was addressed to Megan in a script she didn’t recognize. Her mother’s handwriting. Her mother’s card.
Sarah squeezed her hand again. Her aunt’s eyes were opened. She smiled.
Megan smiled back. Perhaps everything would be all right. At least for today.
About the Author
Wendy Tyson’s background in law and psychology has provided inspiration for her mysteries and thrillers. Originally from the Philadelphia area, Wendy has returned to her roots and lives there again on a micro-farm with her husband, three sons and three dogs. Wendy’s short fiction has appeared in literary journals, and she’s a contributing editor and columnist for The Big Thrill and The Thrill Begins, International Thriller Writers’ online magazines. Wendy is the author of the Allison Campbell Mystery Series and the Greenhouse Mystery Series.
The Greenhouse Mystery Series
by Wendy Tyson
A MUDDIED MURDER (#1)
BITTER HARVEST (#2)
SEEDS OF REVENGE (#3)
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