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Do I know you? I ask.
The ellipses on the bottom left corner of my phone blink multiple times, but no words follow, and my heart skips a beat. I wonder whether this is a stalker. Maybe I should try to trace the call or go to the police, even though they said not to. Did they threaten Arthur or blackmail him into giving me the interview, and if so, should I be scared? Or thankful?
I’m not the one you need to worry about. I’m only trying to help Allegra’s truth come out and therefore help you as well. No, the number won’t be traceable, if that’s what you’re thinking. Don’t even waste your time.
What do you want me to do? I ask.
No dots appear this time, and they respond immediately. Get the story. Be willing to wait and truly listen. Trust me. And me alone.
I can trust you—as long as I don’t feel you’re dangerous. I’m hoping they’ll convince me they’re not and tell me who is dangerous.
Don’t text me back. I text you. More later—a source.
***
THE NEXT MORNING, I’M in a hurry to begin my investigation into Allegra’s death. I can also continue to cover school system–related stories, and I plan to feature residential concerns within smaller communities, business and real estate trends, local talent performances, political events, and charity fundraisers. But before I can get started with work, I need to get Graham and me ready and drive him to school.
When Graham and I arrive at his classroom door, he gives me a ginormous hug and a kiss on the lips in front of his friends and teacher. “Bye, Mom. I love you,” he calls as he hangs his backpack on the bright-green wall covered with numbers and letters before joining his friends at the craft table.
I stroll out the door toward my car, my eyes misty with gratitude, and the significantly colder air hits me. I’m so glad I can take Graham to preschool every day now. These moments are so precious. I fold my arms across my chest as the wind picks up. Winter weather has arrived in Knoxville, and the leaves all decided to fall overnight, leaving the trees exposed and naked.
Once in the car, I start it and crank the heat up, thinking about how to begin investigating Allegra’s death. Who would she have truly trusted? Who would know things about her life? Her family for sure, close friends, her church, neighbors, old friends from school...
There’s no better gossip than dirt from a nosy neighbor, so I’ll start there. Maybe I’ll find a good “mouth of the South” like old Mrs. Warner, the next-door neighbor who was the epitome of a busybody when I was little. We never had a single visitor at our house who wasn’t sized up behind her blinds before the caller even hit our front porch. She was the neighborhood watch wrapped up into one ninety-five-pound woman. I’m off to Sequoyah Hills, then.
I pull up on Cherokee Boulevard and drive past Sequoyah Hills Park. Most people in Knoxville dream of owning a house in Sequoyah Hills. It’s a hop, skip, and a jump from the University of Tennessee campus, which sits right next to the downtown area. Sequoyah Hills also sits on the Tennessee River, where boats and yachts are often docked.
In front of their ten-thousand-square-foot homes, bundled-up people are throwing Frisbees to their dogs. Others jog down the greenway that runs through the median, and I can’t help feeling that they should observe a moment of silence since one of their own has just passed.
I continue on for half a mile and approach a stone-covered English Tudor mansion on what looks like at least two acres of land, and according to Zillow, the home has stood the test of time since 1927. A woman heads out of the Hudsons’ front door and toward her worn Highlander parked on the street. Expensive luxury vehicles line the paver driveway. I’ve got my phone out and my window down, and the woman notices me studying the ivy-covered home. She purses her lips then asks, “Can I help you?” Her disagreeable tone says, “We’re all sick of you gawkers.”
She probably takes me for another nosy reporter with no boundaries. I wonder whether to drive away or give it a shot, but too late. She’s here.
“Oh, hi.” I remove the sunglasses that cover half my face. “My name’s Madeleine Barton. I actually just started my own—”
She cuts me off with a raised hand. She smiles, and her demeanor changes. “Oh yeah, I recognize you. I heard about you starting your own news operation on Facebook. I think it’s inspiring, the way you’ve branched out on your own.”
I grin, thinking I’ve won her over. “Oh, really? I’m so glad you think so.”
“Yes. I hate that they didn’t treat you right over at WKNX. I’ve heard that Perry Brown can be a real jerk. A real handsy jerk, actually,” she whispers through cupped hands as she looks from side to side as if checking for eavesdroppers.
I cock my head, sizing her up. Freckles and a warm smile give her a girl-next-door look, although she seems about forty or so, and I instantly like her. She seems familiar. “Well, I can’t argue with your description. What did you say your name was?”
“Oh, right, I didn’t.” She shuffles some folders to her left hand and extends her right arm into my open car window. “I’m Ivy Richards. I’m Allegra’s—or I was Allegra’s—best friend. We grew up together. Almost like sisters, actually.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I offer.
Her friendly face falls, and I have the urge to console her.
“Thank you. It’s been awful,” she says.
“I’d like to help if I can. Do you know how the family feels about the police not having any real information on the cause of death yet? I know it’s only been a few days, but are they happy with the progress so far? Because I’ve read a few blogs that indicate Detective Wentworth is on the case now and may not be after the truth.”
She perks up. “You know what? If I’m going to talk to you, it’s not for a story—well, not for a gossip story. I’m only interested in finding justice for Allegra and her family.”
I agree wholeheartedly with her ultimatum. “Of course.”
She looks back at the Hudson house, perhaps checking to see if anyone’s watching our interaction. “I like you, and I’d like to work with you on getting the real story, like you said, if that’s what you’re asking me.”
“Absolutely. I’m not looking to run any stories on Allegra, her family, her friends, or any crazy theories. I’m only interested in finding out what really happened, and when I do, that’ll be the story. The only story. No information comes from me except that.”
Ivy straightens up and looks around. The wintry breeze blows her chestnut hair back, and she bends down to my level as if she’s made a decision. “Let’s go sit and chat somewhere else.”
“Starbucks on Kingston Pike?”
“See you there in ten.” She shuffles toward her Highlander as if we’ve just made a drug deal.
Before I pull out of the neighborhood, I unlock my phone so I can check on the amount of money in my account, something I’m becoming obsessive about. I’m not sure if I can even afford Starbucks. My rent check has probably cleared, and I don’t know how long it’s going to be before I earn another check after this week. I should probably sip from the bottle of water in my purse instead of buying coffee.
***
MARCUS ROACH’S NAME flashes across the screen of my phone as I cruise past the Ice Chalet, where I had my ice-skating-themed birthday parties in both third and fourth grades, thanks to my amazing mother. I remember he said he was on a big story, so I answer.
“Hey, Mad. How’s everything going? I saw your new website, and it looks pretty stellar. Good job.”
“Aww, thanks. That means a lot to me, knowing you find it up to par. Things are good. Just got a new source close to Allegra Hudson who’s willing to talk to me, so talk fast because I’m on my way to meet her right now. How are things with you and your story?”
Marcus coughs and clears his throat a few times, sounding like a chain-smoker on the brink of death. “Amazing. Juicy. I can’t believe how big this is going to be. It could potentially ruin someone. That’s all I can say. And yes, they deserve it.”
“You still have that cough? You really need to go to the doctor, or you’re going to be a breaking story. You sounded like you had bronchitis two weeks ago. I’d hate to know what it’s become by now. Probably pneumonia. And while you’re at it, you probably need to back off the coffee. What are you up to now? Five cups?”
Our brother-and-sister relationship works both ways. Not that I’m the epitome of health or anything, but Marcus has some work to do if he’s going to make it to forty without having a heart attack induced by the excessive amounts of coffee and Red Bull he downs on the regular.
“I’ll be fine. No time for doctors right now. I’ll nail down the rest of this story in a day or two, and I can get checked then. Nothing’s going to stop me right now. I can’t let them know I’m on the brink of exposing them, or it’s all over. After this piece, maybe we can work on the Allegra thing together. If my story goes well, I’ll have enough clout to do whatever I want. Maybe I’ll join you on your team, or we can team up. I’d love to get away from Perry anyway. Can you imagine what could happen if I break this story wide open for Knoxville and you solve Allegra’s murder? We’ll both go national, Mad.”
I laugh nervously, knowing what he’s saying could be true. As much as I want success, I can’t see it happening. Maybe I’m afraid to picture what big success would do to me. I might get swept away with it and forget who I really am. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves now.”
“Have you phoned Wentworth yet? I think he could help you out.”
“No, not yet. I will eventually,” I add, knowing it’s a stretch. Technically, I might give him a call for something in my lifetime, so it’s not exactly a lie.
“I can give him a call for you if that makes it less intimidating. He’d probably be more willing to share information if I talk to him first anyway. I’ll give him a ring today or tomorrow.”
I sigh. “Okay, that works.”
“I’ll call you afterward to check up on you and let you know what I hear from Wentworth. Good luck with your new source, Mad.”
“And good luck to you on your upcoming takedown. I swear I don’t know anyone as ruthless as you. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
Marcus laughs. “Talk soon. And be careful with this one. Something tells me it’s a bigger story than you think it is.”
***
THE SMELL OF STARBUCKS coffee reminds me of Clayton and the lake house his aunt used to have in Dandridge. Memories of one particular summer fill me with nostalgia. We’d snuck off to his aunt’s log cabin at Douglas Lake when we were each supposedly spending the night at a friend’s house. It was the first time I’d told a huge lie to my mom.
The morning after we lost ourselves in each other for the first time, in her master bedroom, I spied his aunt’s coffee maker on the kitchen counter and brewed us a fresh cup. Clayton took the first sip while he was clad in black socks and Spider-Man boxers, and he swallowed as if I’d fed him shards of glass. He forced a grin and kissed me on the mouth. “Thanks, baby. It’s perfect.”
I took a sip from my cup and spit it out in the sink, mortified that I had screwed it up. “Clay, it’s disgusting! How’d you even get it down? It tastes like lake water with a sugar cube.”
“Yeah, babe, the water from the sink basically is lake water. You’ve got to get it filtered from the fridge.” He’d grabbed my waist and pulled me close as he took another giant gulp. “But since you fixed it, it really is perfect.”
As I remember his face, a single tear stings mine. Then a strange ringing begins in my ears, and the back of my head aches again. It’s the same ice pick feeling I had at Violet’s doorstep but sharper and more intense. Not now, please. Not now. Not when I can practically see Clayton again like it was yesterday. In the blink of an eye, the piercing pain leaves as quickly as it came, along with Clayton.
Ivy plops down next to me as if we’re long-lost friends. “Thanks for meeting me here. I didn’t want any of Allegra’s neighbors or family to get the wrong idea, you know? Did you want to get some coffee?”
I shake my head. “No, but feel free to grab some if you want. I completely understand about the neighbor thing, by the way. Sometimes the media can be overbearing.”
“They really can. Some of them know no limitations at all. I’m good on the coffee front for now, too, so feel free to ask me whatever.”
“Okay, then. To start with, can you just tell me about yourself and how you knew Allegra?”
Ivy clears her throat, scans the room, and straightens her back. “I’m a stay-at-home mom to a twelve-year-old boy, and my husband, Rick, is an architect. I met Allegra when we were both in the same class in elementary school. We’ve been best friends ever since, although we’ve had our ups and downs along the way. She was the sister I never had. We took care of each other.”
With her freckles, chestnut-brown hair, and animated gestures, Ivy reminds me of Violet. Perhaps that’s why I took to her so quickly. She’s so similar, only older. I can’t help but picture how devastating it would be for either Vi or me to lose the other one.
“So how is the family doing? How was her relationship with her husband?”
She leans in close. “Allegra’s husband, Connor, and the boys are just completely torn apart. I am, too, but I feel like I have to be strong for them. It’s what Allegra would want. If you ask me, the police aren’t doing a very good job. I mean, how hard can it be? Can they not at least say yes, she was murdered? All the headlines are saying it, but the police haven’t confirmed it yet. I think it’d bring everyone a little closure to know whether it was one hundred percent an accident or not. You know?”
“Yes, of course,” I say, but I don’t mean it. After Clayton’s death, I punched my bedroom door and walls until they were stained red. I couldn’t deal with my rage or the senselessness of his death. Knowing whether it was or wasn’t an accident won’t bring them closure. It will only bring them more questions and what-ifs. That, I know.
“Is there a chance it could’ve been an accident?”
Ivy sighs long and hard before she answers. “Remember Allegra’s sketchy behavior and appearance when she was selling books on QVC?”
“Who can forget that? I read that she overdid it on her anxiety medication that day because she was nervous about being on air for such a long time.”
“Right. Well, that happened more than that one time. And the other times, she wasn’t going on live TV. Benzodiazepine can be addicting if abused, and Allegra developed a dependence on it after her mom died. Her death was a lot for Allegra to handle. They were very close. One pill took the edge off, and she quickly discovered that a few at a time mixed with some wine made her forget the pain completely.
“The police don’t know any of this, because Connor and I agreed it should be kept a secret, and I hope I’m right and that you can be trusted. She hasn’t abused pills for years now, and while they can cause grogginess that leads to falls, we don’t want the police using her past problems as a way to blame Allegra’s death on her when, according to who you ask, she was arguably hit in the head before she fell. Allegra realized she had a problem after QVC, and she got it together. She threw herself into work and kind of went overboard with being busy, and that’s when her marriage problems began, but that’s another story. Anyway, my husband and I have heard Wentworth likes to keep things as simple as possible, and we don’t want Allegra’s reputation tarnished because he’s too political and lazy to find out the actual truth.”
My heart sinks. I can’t believe someone who seemingly had it together could end up abusing antianxiety pills. I guess we’re all just one catastrophe away from similar circumstances, especially those of us with anxiety issues. Sometimes, I feel like I need to double up on my meds to do a live report. I know Ivy thinks Allegra’s drug abuse is incidental to the investigation, but it’s something to keep in mind as I learn more about Allegra. I can’t just pretend it’s not a possible motive or cause of death just because her friend says so.
Thank God for Graham being in my belly during my time of loss, or I might have ended up with a pill problem like Allegra. And thank God for Allegra’s career, because it helped her deal with her pill problem. I realize Ivy didn’t touch on Allegra’s marriage, so I press her again. “What was her marriage like?”
Ivy appears to choose her words carefully. “They were having some difficulties. Allegra was spreading herself pretty thin over the past few years. I mean, she was kind of a big deal. She adored her fans and her career and gave it all she had, but Connor definitely felt neglected at times. And rightfully so in my opinion. Allegra stayed busy with her fans, charities, and career so she wouldn’t have to completely accept her mom’s passing. But it was hard on Connor, too, because she held her feelings inside. All of that hurt was bottled up, and she was distant at times.”
“Did Connor get angry about her absence?” I ask.
Ivy shakes her head. “Connor would never hurt her, if that’s what you’re getting at. They fought, yes, but nothing like that. Plus, the camera footage from the night she died shows him sleeping as Allegra walked out the front door, and at the time of her murder. He found her, you know. And on the footage, he goes outside after hearing a noise and then, seconds later, rushes inside to call 911.” Ivy wipes her eyes.
“How horrible for him to find her like that. I can only imagine how he’s torturing himself with guilt over not checking earlier.”
She leans in. “Word on the street is that Wentworth is so wrapped up in his police-chief cousin’s political career and in tying up cases faster than anyone else that he might be falsely accusing people, which is terrifying. But none of us want to contest it because then we’ll likely be the one he pins Allegra’s death on. Connor’s thought about hiring a private investigator, and maybe he will. I don’t know, but I’d love for you to see what you can find out. We need someone out there investigating who’s unbiased, because according to the police report, nothing was taken from her. She still had her suitcase, her purse, which had her laptop in it, her wedding rings, and her diamond stud earrings on her when she was found. I find that a little odd.”
“Hmm. That’s definitely interesting.” I’m thrilled she has such faith in me but also surprised. “Of course, I’ll do everything I can,” I assure her with a nod, knowing I have something no one else has—a source.
Her bottom lip quivers. “I truly appreciate it.”
I press on. “So what can you tell me about Allegra? What kind of person was she? Did she have any known enemies?”
Ivy sighs as a tear cascades down her cheek. “Here’s the truth. I loved Allegra since we were little, and like I said, we were close until about five years ago, when she really made it big in the publishing world and became a bit... detached. Her free time became limited, especially after her mom and the pills, and everyone wanted to be her friend or fan, and she kind of faded away from me, and I’m not one to desperately chase anyone for friendship. If you want to be my friend, you’ll make time for me. If you don’t, then you won’t.”
“Distant and detached? In what way?” I picture Allegra at events for charities like St. Jude’s and United Way, a charismatic grin on her face and anything but distant and inaccessible.
“She got busier, obviously. Then she convinced Connor and the boys to move from Powell to Sequoyah Hills. Her youngest and my boy are the same age, and even they lost touch after the move. Everyone knows Sequoyah Hills is one of the ritziest places in Knoxville. You’ve been there. It’s full of historic riverfront mansions with enormous exquisitely landscaped yards for only the elite-est of the elite, and she wanted to be a part of it since they could afford it and all.
“Connor’s construction business could probably have allowed them to live there a few years back, to be honest, but Connor’s a good ole boy. He doesn’t care for the glitz and glamour, and the Allegra I grew up with didn’t put much stock in it either. We both came from very humble but happy backgrounds. But they moved, and she slowly began to change. Her new friend and neighbor Mayven Bennett influenced her in the snobby sort of way, if you know what I mean.”
“I assume you didn’t take well to her new circle of friends?”
“No, not really. It wasn’t our Allegra, you know? Not the one I’d known forever. I guess that’s what fame can do to you. She and Connor disagreed about a lot of things, too, from then on. She swore the fame and fortune wouldn’t change who she was even when they moved, but he found her sudden interest in country clubs, new cars and boats, and rubbing elbows with local politicians a bit pretentious and not at all like the country girl he fell in love with. So many things changed over time, and the boys weren’t happy about switching schools either.”
I look up from my pen and paper, trying to remember the boys’ ages. “She has two preteen boys, right?”
“Gosh, no. Mason’s going to be eighteen this year, and Garrett’s just turned twelve.”
She pauses and touches my hand, and I look up.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not that jealous friend who couldn’t handle the fame and success of her best friend. When she first started writing, I was her go-to beta reader. I was always the person she trusted to read her work, besides her sweet momma, who passed away right after Allegra made it really big. Her mom always struggled with money, having raised Allegra on her own. I was truly happy things were easier for her, just as much as I would’ve been if it’d happened to me.”
Ivy sounds sincere, but she’s protesting quite a bit. Maybe she does have some latent animosity toward Allegra, or maybe she’s hurt that her best friend moved on and left her.
“So did she stop letting you read her work once she moved?”
“No, she always did that, even with her latest books. We bounced ideas back and forth so well together. Mysteries and suspense have always been my favorite genres since we were little. I got Allegra hooked on Nancy Drew and Scooby-Doo when we were young, and she moved on to scarier stuff by studying Hitchcock in high school. She was hooked on solving every whodunit movie or book from then on, so it wasn’t a huge surprise when she decided to create her own. She knew if she could shock me with an ending, it was a worthwhile twist.”
“You guys were still pretty close friends, just not best friends, then?” Maybe Ivy was overly needy. Perhaps she required a lot of attention and reassurance once Allegra became a Hollywood hit. Or maybe she isn’t telling me everything.
“That’s fair to say, yeah.” Ivy nods as if she’s been carried back to the good old days of their friendship and doesn’t remember how things ended for Allegra.
“Did she have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to hurt her? Any crazy stalkers or obsessive fans?”
Ivy rubs her temples and frowns. “I have wracked my brain trying to think of anyone, and I’ve got absolutely nothing. I know it wasn’t an accident, but it doesn’t make any sense why it wouldn’t be. I can’t imagine anyone hating her that much. She was a good person.”
Her voice trembles, and she’s visibly cracking. It’s time to wrap this up. “Okay, I can see that you need a break. Tell you what, if you think of any more information that’d be helpful, call, text, email, whatever. At any time, okay?” I jot down my contact information and pass it across the table.
“I will for sure.” Ivy wipes her eyes. “Thanks.”
Before I leave, I want to get a cup of the smallest decaf they serve and promise to brew my own starting tomorrow. I open my banking app again to see if my latest check has cleared and almost pass out when I see the new amount in my checking account.
I checked it on the way here, and it’s grown by three thousand dollars! I go through my history to find the obvious mistake and come across a check that was deposited only ten minutes ago from A.S. Industries. It’s made out to me, and while it appears to have been deposited and signed by me as well, I didn’t do it, even though the signature is spot-on. When I glance at the bottom left corner of the digital image of the check for the memo, my heart thuds up into my throat, and I take a seat in the booth once more. Grab that coffee, girl. You’re welcome—a source.
After a few seconds of contemplating whether this person is a psychopath who means to control my bank account in a negative manner later, I gather my things and head to the counter for some much-needed coffee. The source didn’t say anything about paying them back, but I’m not sure I want to owe—or depend on—someone I don’t even know. I’m already in a panic when I spot the unique profile of a man with a prominent chin eerily similar to my own. My heart rises into my throat until it’s about to leap out of my mouth. Surely, it’s not...
He turns and speaks to the man behind him, but the face isn’t a match. My heart thumps back down, and my whole body unwinds. I’ve not seen my father since he left my mom and me when I was seven, setting off the first of many panic attacks and insecurity issues. Ever since, I’ve been dreading the moment God allows our paths to cross again. Luckily for me, today is not that day.
My phone vibrates in my purse, and I reach for it as I move up in line. Another text.
You’re gaining their trust. That’s a good start, Mad. Keep going. But move quickly, your time is running out...—a source.
I scan the room for someone watching me, wondering whether this person is dangerous. I walk outside and see my breath in the air as I text Vi about my new message. Despite the crisp air, sweat builds around my hairline.
Now my time is running out? I’m freaking out. Should I respond? I ask Violet as my hands tremble.
No, say nothing. If they’re as technologically savvy as you think they are, they’ll know you read it. You need to let me or someone know about all these texts so we can keep tabs on this situation. Be careful, Mad. They could be watching everything you do.
Her response does nothing for my anxiety. I suppose I’d say the same thing to you, Vi—so, okay. Better you know than my mom. God knows her heart can’t take it. Maybe they want to help me but are sounding vague on purpose so I won’t figure out who they are? I try to rationalize. Maybe they’re intentionally trying to creep me out to keep me at arm’s length? Or maybe they truly are what I don’t want to admit—a threat.
***
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, I tuck Graham in for the night and then myself. I’m in bed and going over the police report that Marcus somehow got ahold of and emailed to me when I was meeting with Ivy, even though Marcus noted that Wentworth had it sealed this afternoon for witness protection reasons. It confirms everything Ivy said, and I’m relieved but still stumped. My phone buzzes on the end table next to my bed. One, two, three, four, five buzzes in a row. Good grief. Did someone else die?
I check to see who’s texting, and it’s WKNX’s former beauty queen, Georgia Wilson. I roll my eyes. She obviously didn’t realize she left me in one of the station’s group texts because I see Perry respond to her as well as others from the station. Everyone seems shocked and surprised as prayers for some family and OMG keep popping up as responses to the original message, which is far from the top of the thread by now. I scroll up, and my stomach tightens when I see the original text.
Guys, I have some terrible news. I just got word that Marcus has been in a terrible accident in his Jeep, and I’m devastated to report that he didn’t make it. Please keep his parents in your prayers as they plan to bury their only son, and please love on each other as we endure this difficult time together. We will all miss Marcus terribly. He was such a valued member of our group here at WKNX.
I can’t read the rest of the responses. My left hand goes straight over my mouth, tears flow down my face, and my pulse sprints. I just talked to him a few hours ago. He was happy, healthy—mostly—and fine. He was on the brink of a huge story.
And now he’s gone.