Chapter Forty-eight

On Tammie’s days off, Claire hated to bother the young woman with phone calls or text messages. Tammie was entitled to a life beyond Sweetgrass.

Claire thought of her own life when she was thirty. She’d been plucked out of Brandywine Valley by Robert Pennington and ModCom, given an opportunity of a lifetime. A celebrity with her own television show and an elegant apartment in New York, where she stayed during the week, she had been on everyone’s A-list for parties and other social events. Nothing had tied her down—not Scott, not her daughters, not Sweetgrass. Of course, there had been plenty of servants there—nannies, cooks, housekeepers, a chauffeur, even a butler. Many more employees than she had now, with only one person’s needs to tend to. On the weekends, she’d come home and try to make up for lost time with her family.

Having been caught up in the glamourous whirlwind of that life, she hadn’t had time to think about the costs borne by her family. She had rationalized her choices. She earned a lot of money. The celebrity status she achieved would benefit her daughters. As a working mother, she was a role model.

Still, when she was honest with herself, she had led a rather selfish life. She’d caused Scott to limit his legal career, so that he could be the stable parent while she gallivanted about New York City. She wondered how things might have turned out had she not spent those years in the spotlight as “America’s Sweetheart Hostess.” Maybe today Jessica wouldn’t be divorced and Rebecca childless. Maybe Scott would still be alive and able to enjoy the golden years with her. And Robert—well, Robert would probably still be the same, wealthy, debonair, charming, and devoted to Jacqueline and his children.

Now, Claire would like to make up for having lived an indulged life. The explosion in her barn and learning about the death of Tammie’s boyfriend had awakened her to the fact that time was passing by, and she may not have that much left. She wanted to show her affection to and provide for her daughters. She wanted to leave a mark on her beloved Brandywine Valley by dedicating land to the conservancy and creating a nature biome. She wanted to take care of her employees—Charlie and Aiko, and especially Tammie, who was as dear to her as family.

Brock Thornton had not returned her call, and she suspected he would drag his feet when it came to cashing out her investments, all of which had come from her personal earnings. The longer he took to get back to her, the more determined she was to terminate her relationship with BMT Financials.

In the meantime, Claire was not without other resources. She still had money with Scott’s financial advisor, and that included a hefty sum from life insurance and Scott’s IRA accounts. On top of that, there was family money she had never touched, conservatively invested in Philadelphia banks. Nobody, especially Brock Thornton, knew about any of these. They were nobody’s business.

Claire decided today would be a good day to inventory her holdings, but to do that, she needed to make a trip to the safety deposit box at the First Bank of Brandywine. As soon as Aiko cleared her lunch dishes, Claire began searching for the key to the safety deposit box. Normally, she kept everything in file folders in her desk drawer, but this key she had hidden in a less obvious place. The problem was, she couldn’t remember where.

Her jewelry boxes, her lingerie drawer, under the mattress—none of these yielded the key. Claire examined every shelf and drawer in her closet and in the closet that had been Scott’s, and she still found nothing.

When was the last time I used the key? She was pretty sure it was pre-pandemic, when she had taken some of her mother’s jewelry out to wear to a party and put it back the following day.

Claire rifled through the drawers of her bathroom vanity, finding nothing, and then her cell phone rang. “Tammie, my dear. I’m so happy you’ve called.”

“Why? Is there something you need?” Tammie’s voice sounded less melodious than usual, as if she’d been crying. And that was understandable.

“I’ve been looking all over for my safety deposit key. Do you remember where I’ve hidden it?”

“Did you look in the bar? I believe it’s taped to the bottom of the bottle of Hennessy’s. You figured no one but you would ever think to look there.”

“Ha. Even I wouldn’t ever think to look there. Thank you. You saved me from tearing the rest of the house apart this afternoon.” Claire was relieved, but still concerned about Tammie. She sounded so forlorn. “Now tell me why you called.”

Tammie sniffed. “I’ve spent the whole morning going through stuff at my place, too. I can’t believe Tripp is gone. I’ve been sorting through the clothes and personal items he left in my apartment.” Somewhere in the background, a dog howled. “I’ve been going over what Tripp said—that he was coming back on a new project, something that would keep him here a long time.”

“Was it a construction project?” Claire asked.

“I didn’t think so. If it had been, he probably would have been more specific. He just said project. And I never saw him after that. I keep thinking of questions—who did Tripp come to see? Why? Who would have had a motive to kill him?”

“You shouldn’t torture yourself with these questions, Tammie. Let the police handle those things. They can be more objective.”

Tammie sighed. “The police didn’t know Tripp the way I did. For all they know, I killed Tripp.”

Claire didn’t know where this conversation was going, but she sensed Tammie’s angst. “How can I help you, dear?”

“I was thinking of the party you hosted when Tripp and the construction guys started the bank barn project. Do you still have the pictures the photographer took there?”

Claire wondered where she had put those pictures. They were more than four years old now. “I’m sure I do, though I’m not sure where.”

“If you still have them, I know where they are—in the right cabinet under the bookshelves in the living room. I think there’s a picture there of a group of guys, with Tripp in the middle. I remember Tripp that evening, saying, ‘These are my people.’ I want to know who is in that photograph.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow, when you’re here, or would you like me to go look now?”

Tammie blew her nose and said, “I’d like to know now. Tripp didn’t have any ‘people’ here in Brandywine, but me. I want to know who he was calling his people.”

Claire agreed to find the photograph and call Tammie back. She went downstairs, first stopping at the bar to retrieve the safety deposit box key, then locating the photo album Tammie referred to. She flipped through the pictures, many of them showing food, drink, and décor. Others were candid photos of people talking, even dancing. There was a quite flattering one of Tammie and Claire, chatting with the architect, Richard Buchanan. Finally, she came to two photos of Tripp with a group of guys. The first photo caused Claire to gasp. The four men had their arms around each other’s shoulders and were leaning forward, as if singing an old school song. Youthful and good-looking, they could have been cousins, co-workers, teammates, or fraternity brothers, having a good time. In order, from left to right, they were Tripp Anderson, Ray Plummer, Wyatt Wukitsch, and Brock Thornton.