by Wendy Tyson
Denver stared into his coffee mug. “Someone like Jatin.”
Megan hadn’t wanted to say it out loud, but yes—someone like Jatin. “He did seem preoccupied with the financial gain.”
“He did.” Denver pushed the cup aside. “Anyway, I did my own research. Called some of my contacts at the pharma companies I use. Still waiting to hear back, but I had the same thought that Chase was leaving BOLD.”
Clay finished his meal and was rinsing out his coffee mug. “Porter and I are fine here today, Megan, if you need to help Alvaro at the café in Bonnie’s absence.”
“Thanks. I’m hoping they discharge her today, but we’ll see. In the meantime, I’ll shoot over to the café, but first I have a stop to make.”
“Where are you going?” Denver asked, concern in his tone.
“I’m going to talk with Martine. I think she’s been holding out on us. If my hunch is right, she’s the person Dillon saw running from the scene.”
“I have rounds this morning. Can it wait until after that and I’ll go with you?”
“Let me call her again this morning. If I can wait, I will.”
Denver didn’t look pleased with the answer. “I’ll let you know what I hear from my pharma contacts.”
Megan watched him leave. She’d head to the barn to tend to the animals, and then she’d be off as well.
Megan checked her phone at 8:06 a.m. Martine had accepted her friend request but still hadn’t returned her call or her text. That seemed odd, but then the woman seemed odd, so who knew.
Megan was tidying up the goats’ pen, warding off Dimples’ play head butts and attempts to chew the hem of her jeans, when Clay and Porter joined her.
Clay held up a granola bar wrapper. “I don’t suppose this belongs to you?”
Megan shook her head. “Maybe it was Bibi’s. Why?”
“Found it stuffed in the barn near Camilla’s enclosure.” Porter’s lean, handsome face darkened. “Doubt this belongs to Bonnie.” He held up a comic book.
“Nope,” Megan said. “Before we get too ahead of ourselves, Dillon was here before. Could be he left it then.”
“Don’t think so,” Clay said. “I’m in there daily. No wrappers, no comics.”
“Well then,” Porter said, “either the kid came back to finish his job or he wanted to be with your grandmother.”
“I’m betting on the latter.” Megan grabbed her cell phone from her jeans pocket. “Calling Eloise, Denver, and King to let them know.”
By 9:22, Megan was tired of trying to reach Martine. She looked up the boarding house on her phone and entered the address into her phone. She swung by the café first to see if Martine was there. No luck, but Megan did find Xavier and Barbara sitting at a corner table, eating oatmeal and fruit.
“Good morning,” Megan said. “The café treating you alright?”
Xavier nodded. “Can’t say the same for your boyfriend. Any idea where he is?”
“Out on rounds. I think he’ll be by later today.”
Barbara moved over a seat. “Want to join us? Is that allowed?”
Megan smiled. “One good thing about being your own boss is that almost anything’s allowed.” She glanced around. “Speaking of boss’s, where’s Dr. Mantra today?”
“Dealing with her daughter’s craziness, no doubt,” Xavier said. Barbara glared at him and he looked down. “Well, it’s true. The queen bee has her own problems to deal with on top of this mess.”
“I thought the school really turned her around?”
“If you mean they made her into a drug addict instead of a criminal, okay, sure.”
Another withering look from Barbara.
Barbara said, “Harriet’s daughter takes up a lot of her energy these days. She and her mother don’t get along, part of the reason the school worked. Distance. Now that she’s an adult, she has more freedom but very little responsibility. She wanders, and Harriet has trouble keeping track of her.”
“She’s crazy,” Xavier said. “They both are.”
Barbara sighed. “Nothing like airing our dirty laundry.”
“We all have it.” Megan started to rise. “Have either of you seen Martine? We’re supposed to get together,” Megan lied, “and she doesn’t seem to be answering her phone.”
“Speaking of dirty laundry,” Xavier said. Xavier snickered, Barbara’s lip curled into a mean smile.
Annoyed, Megan said, “Okay, well, if I see Denver, I’ll tell him where you are.”
“Please. I think we’ll be leaving tomorrow or day after next, so it would be great to say goodbye.” Barbara touched Megan’s hand. “I hate to leave like this. It’s been a rather awful trip.”
Megan nodded. “I think Denver would like that.” Another lie. She understood now why Denver was so bad at this.
Thirty
The boarding house was a testament to yesteryear. The owner, an older woman from Winsome, catered to couples and small families traveling through the area but also to lone business travelers who just wanted a hot meal, a comfortable bed, and a clean environment. The owner had inherited one of the largest homes in Winsome when her father died. Unsure how to keep up with the upkeep and the taxes, she converted it into a four room and one cottage property. These days it would be considered a bed and breakfast.
“Martine Pringle? I don’t know this one,” the owner said to Megan. She wore a black velour sweat suit and colorful beaded bracelets. Her hair, once a tawny color, was now a harsh whitish-yellow that she wore swept away from her face in a bob. They were standing in the center hall of the large but worn Victorian. A vase of sunflowers sat in the middle of a round table atop a faded Oriental rug. Despite the overcast day, light streamed in from floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting dust swirling in mini cyclones around the room.
“Martine said she was staying at a boarding house. This is the only one in town.” Megan pulled out her phone, looked Martine up on social media, and showed the woman the picture. “Look familiar?”
“Ah, that girl. Yes. She asked for a room, but we were full.” The woman wore false teeth. She either didn’t have them in today or they weren’t fitting correctly, because she covered her mouth when she spoke. “I suggested she go to New Hope or Doylestown. She said no, she wanted to stay close to her work people—but not too close. Strange bird. Very nervous.”
“Any idea where she may have gone?”
“The only other gig in town is the Motor Way Suites. Hardly what I’d call suites, but plenty of motor way. I know the manager. Want me to call for you?”
“That would be great.”
Megan sat in one of the overstuffed Queen Anne chairs while the woman made her call. She busied herself checking out Martine’s social media pages. The trail started with professional pages showcasing professional photos of Martine and listings of all her professional credentials. Her Instagram page had a suggested link to “Photos By M,” which seemed to be Martine’s hobby page. There, Megan found dozens of photos. One in particular caught her eye: Chase, sitting on a rock in a park by the ocean. He had a genuinely happy smile on his face. His body looked braced for flight, his hair was flying behind him, his hands were spread wide. It was a look of anticipation, excitement…even joy.
It was also Martine’s most recent work. The setting looked to be California, so it had to have been more than a week old, at least. Maybe the two were an item. This only increased Megan’s desire to talk with Martine.
The owner came back out of her office in a rush. “She’s there. Checked in a few nights ago. Manager thinks she’s there now, matter of fact.” She handed Megan a piece of paper with a room number and a cell phone on it. “He’s kind of a lazy ass, but he owes me. If you need him, call. He’ll answer.”
“This is fantastic. What can I do to repay you?”
The corners of the woman’s smile were just v
isible behind her hand. “Next time I come to the café, you have Alvaro make his famous huevos rancheros? They’re not on the menu most days. I ask, he tells me no. He’ll listen to you.”
Megan wasn’t so sure about that, but she happily agreed. “On the house.”
“Even better.”
Motor Way Suites was a dump. The boarding house owner obviously thought it odd that a woman with Martine’s credentials and money would want to stay there, and Megan shared her surprise. No more than twenty “suites,” it was housed on a dirty strip of lawn next to busy Route 611. The building was single story with parking spaces outside each unit in a central, crumbling lot. A kidney-shaped pool had long been neglected and now sat forgotten next to the main building, its top covered with a moldy green tarp puddled with brown water. A neon sign next to the office read “ACANCY,” the lights in the “V” coming on sporadically.
Megan found Martine’s room and knocked. A quick glance showed Martine’s car parked in the lot, on the far side under the trees. Megan knocked again. She dialed Martine’s number and called.
No answer, and Megan didn’t hear the phone through the door.
She debated whether to leave or ask the manager for help. She decided on the latter and dialed the number on the paper that’d been given to her.
“You the woman looking for one of my guests?” a gruff male voice asked. “That Martine girl?”
“That’s me.” Megan explained that she was worried about Martine. “No one has seen her in days.”
“Knock on her door.”
“I tried that.”
“Look, lady, I work nights. I’d have to get dressed and come down in person. Not happening.” He hung up.
Damn. Megan stood in front of Martine’s motel room and tried Martine one more time in case the other woman was simply napping or taking a bath. Still no answer. She called Denver next. When he didn’t answer, she left him a voicemail telling him where she was.
She took a deep breath and tried the door. It was locked.
Two large windows flanked the door. Both had blinds that were drawn most of the way, but the blinds on one window had snagged. Megan glanced around the empty parking lot before kneeling down in front of the window. It was no use; she couldn’t make out anything on the other side.
Bracing herself, biting back a persistent wave of anxiety-induced nausea, Megan tried the old credit card in the door. That didn’t work either. Face it, she thought, you’re no criminal-in-the-making. She was about to call the manager again when she noticed the edge of one window was cracked. The crack extended to the metal frame, and part of the exterior sill was rotted and crumbling. Megan tugged on the window. She felt it give a little—enough to encourage her to continue. She kept at it, glancing around as she did so.
With a rush of frigid air, she felt the ancient window give way and slide open.
The first thing she noticed was the cold. The air conditioner must have been maxed because the air coming from inside the room was icy. And laced with a sickeningly sweet smell.
Megan called out. No answer. She could make out Martine’s purse on a cheap side table, the scarf she’d worn during one of their meetings on the bed. A suitcase lay open on a dresser, two pairs of pumps nearby on the floor.
No Martine.
A chill ran down her spine. The nausea grew worse. She toyed with calling the manager again and asking him to join her. If something had happened, she didn’t want to mess with evidence. But Martine could be injured or trapped, and waiting for him would waste time. She got another whiff of the putrid smell. This was an emergency. She climbed through the window, keys out, meager protection against whatever was inside.
Megan reached the bathroom. The door was closed, and using her shirt as a glove, she opened it slowly. The bathroom light was off. Hand covered, Megan flipped the light on, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She saw a cheap gold-colored sink, a matching toilet, and blood.
Martine was in the tub. From the look of her body—and the smell—she’d been dead for days. Blood splashed the interior of the room, soaking the floor and staining the tiles. Another stabbing.
Oh, Martine. Megan stared at the body, fighting back tears and holding back the bile that threatened to rise. While they’d been talking about the woman as a suspect, she’d been victimized herself. She’d been alone—and vulnerable. And now this.
Megan hit 911 as she fled the room. She ran the length of the parking lot and into the office. A young receptionist was there, chewing gum and staring at her computer.
She explained what happened in a jumbled mass of words.
The woman stared at her, confusion plastered on her face.
“Dead. I called 911. I think you’d better come.”
When she didn’t move, Megan called the manager. He listened calmly before saying, “Oh, shit.”
Clearly, he wasn’t going to be much help. Megan jogged back to Martine’s room. It was only minutes before she heard the sirens wailing in the near-distance.
She called King, then Denver. Poor Martine. She may have obscured the truth, but she’d been honest about one thing: something bad was afoot at BOLD.
Thirty-One
King took Megan’s statement at the scene before letting her go. He seemed frustrated that she couldn’t tell him more.
“I’ve been trying to reach her for days. I think someone else has her phone.” Megan explained her attempts to talk with Martine, the texts that were answered with short responses, and the accepted Facebook friend request. “Whoever has it did enough to make Martine seem alive—without giving anything away. Find her phone, find her killer.”
King stared off in the distance at the ambulance and firetrucks that had appeared. “I got your text, about the kid seeing someone flee the scene. I’ve been following up on that.”
“And?”
He nodded toward the motel. “I thought it was Martine. We were all convinced she was hiding something. Seems like we were right.”
“Now we may never know what.”
King studied Megan in a measured way that made her uncomfortable. “Remember the other day when I told you I couldn’t say what was stolen from Harriet’s room?”
“How could I forget?”
“It was about the FDA approval process notes. Harriet refused to say whether the drug was accepted or not, but either way, the information is powerful. I suspected Martine was the person who stole it.”
Megan tried to hide her surprise. “Martine? Why?”
“Gut. Her reaction when I questioned her. She seemed squirrely.” His gaze trailed off to the motel again. “I really thought she’d killed Chase. Perhaps out of anger that he didn’t return her feelings.”
Megan looked at King with renewed appreciation. She told him about the photos Martine had taken of Chase. “I think there had been something between the two of them, which may explain her odd behavior. Perhaps she’d initially been hiding the affair from the others.”
King nodded. “Perhaps.”
“Some things are coming together, Bobby. I have another piece or two I need to check out, but I think someone in their circle killed Chase, hurt Bibi, and now this.”
“That’s yet to be established.”
Megan did everything she could not to roll her eyes. “The phone.”
“The phone.” King’s voice trailed off. He watched in the distance as the body was removed in a bag and placed in the ambulance. “Why go after Martine?”
“She clearly knew too much.”
“But with a trail of bodies, whoever did this is bound to get caught. It’s hard to pin this one on Dillon. He’s still missing.”
Megan said, “Did you get my message? We think he slept in our barn last night.”
“I did. Not good.” Another officer jogged over, and King excused himself. “No more sleuthing around, Megan
. This one is too dangerous.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, so Megan didn’t have to make a promise she couldn’t keep.
Megan drove to the Bucks County Inn in the hopes that the innkeeper could help her track down Harriet Mantra. She wasn’t at the front desk. Instead, Megan was met by an older gentleman with a ring of gray hair and a salty demeanor. He wore a blue bow tie and argyle socks and seemed intent on not answering any of Megan’s questions.
“Is Dr. Mantra in?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Megan gave him the rest of the BOLD employees’ names. Same response. She didn’t see their cars in the lot; it was possible they’d already been called in to the police station.
Megan left feeling frustrated. She needed to collect her thoughts. The last thing she wanted to do was tip off the killer, and if she acted impulsively, she just might do that.
She decided to head to the hospital. She didn’t want to excite her grandmother, but she could check on her progress with the doctors and find out when she could come home. The drive would give her time to think things through.
Megan chose a spot toward the back of the visitors’ lot. She sat in silence, considering recent events. Bibi had been poisoned. The words still caused a stabbing pain in her chest, which made the urgency to find the culprit overwhelming. She forced herself to be calm, to think, only the image of Martine’s mutilated body plagued her. She rested her head against the seat. Had Bibi been chosen because she was too close to Dillon? If so, the only one who knew that was Dr. Star.
All things seemed to lead back to the school. Dr. Star was an enigma. Lou’s neighbor Dee Dee loved him, Eloise had nothing bad to say about the man. Yet Megan suspected he’d told Harriet Mantra that Dillon had a confidante in Bibi. Dillon had seen a woman flee the scene of the crime, important information the police should have considered. What if that woman had been Harriet? What if she’d been in Pennsylvania all along, only pretending to arrive after Chase’s murder?