By the time Frank left, Chelsea was exhausted. Although they’d gathered a lot of information, she felt no closer to finding out who was trying to kill her and why.
Her mother had lied to Frank about Chelsea’s decision to stay in Europe. Why?
What did it mean?
Across from her at the table, Dylan was making notes in his little book. She didn’t have the energy to ask what he was writing.
He looked up. “I’m going to call Eric, see if he’ll run that plate for us.”
“Why didn’t you ask Frank about it?”
“I didn’t want to muddy the waters. He seemed overwhelmed. And Eric’ll get us a name.”
A flimsy excuse, but she didn’t press him. Dylan didn’t know Frank like she did. If he suspected her uncle of wrongdoing, so be it. She wouldn’t try to talk him out of it. He’d learn eventually that Frank wasn’t the enemy.
Dylan stood. “Why don’t you get your things together?”
She hobbled down the hall to her bedroom. Mum had redecorated the room for her a few years back, replacing the purple unicorn-and-rainbow bedspread she’d chosen as a little girl with a soft gray comforter and coordinating jewel-toned throw pillows.
Chelsea stared at the painting Mum had bought in Manhattan, an original by some up-and-coming artist Chelsea had never heard of. She liked the still life well enough, but right now, she imagined the Nick Carter poster that had adorned the space before Chelsea had been shipped off to England. She’d loved The Backstreet Boys. After her dad’s death, she used to blast their song, “Incomplete,” and cry and think of how she’d never be the same, never be complete, without him.
Now, Mum was gone, too.
The lyrics flitted through her mind, but she had no time to throw herself onto her bed and weep. She was an adult now with adult responsibilities.
So why did she feel like an orphan?
She’d hated being an only child, but Chelsea could claim one thing that kids with siblings rarely could—she knew she’d been her parents’ favorite. She’d seen the love in their eyes every time they looked at her. People had always complimented Chelsea on her confidence. When she was a kid, she’d never understood that. Why not feel confident? What was there to be afraid of?
She knew now that, in those early years before Daddy’s death, her parents’ love and support had made her fearless. Why worry when you had two people—people who’d seemed infallible and invincible—in your corner?
They hadn’t been infallible or invincible. Chelsea’s support was gone. Now, nobody was in her corner.
She was nobody’s favorite.
Tears dripped from her eyes as she gathered her things.
She changed her clothes, ditching the shorts and tank top—both sweaty after the trip up the mountain—for black capris and a short-sleeved blouse. She had to try several shoes to find one with the same height as the ugly boot and finally settled on a sandal with a one-inch heel.
Ten minutes later, she dragged her suitcase into the living room and set it by the door.
As she did, sounds came from her purse—the dings of incoming text messages and the chime of voicemail.
She checked the screen. Her service was back.
She scrolled through all the notifications. Uncle Frank, of course, some friends in England who’d heard of Mum’s passing. There were a few calls from a number she recognized as HCI’s corporate line.
One series of messages surprised her. Her old friend, Tabby, had called three times and left multiple text messages.
The first had been left late Monday afternoon. Are you okay? I heard a weird rumor. Call me.
On Tuesday, Tabby had written. Where are you? I thought you were coming in yesterday.
More texts read: I’m getting worried.
Praying for you.
Please call me. Strange things are happening here.
Chelsea listened to Tabby’s voicemails. The first had been left the morning before, the morning Chelsea had been shot at.
“Hey, it’s Tabby. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but there are weird things happening around here. Cops and PIs in the building, stories of a break-in, and all sorts of other crazy rumors. Call me as soon as you get this. I’m really worried about you.”
Chelsea deleted the message and held the phone to her chest. Once upon a time, Tabby had been her Very Best Friend in the Whole Wide World. She smiled at the title they’d given each other when they were nine. They’d climbed Chelsea’s favorite tree in the woods beside her house. Seated side by side at the top, they’d been sure they could see all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. They’d promised eternal friendship and devotion. And they’d vowed never to leave Coventry, “to stay here forever and ever,” Tabby had said, her messy ponytail bouncing with the vehemence of her words. “Except, like for college, and even then we’ll go to the same school, and then we’ll come right back.”
Chelsea had made the promise easily, certain nothing could keep it from coming to pass. How innocent. How foolish.
She and Tabby had kept in touch, but they hadn’t remained close. Tabby had tried over the years to keep their friendship alive, but it had been too hard for Chelsea. Too hard hearing Tabby talk about Chelsea’s former school and her former teachers and her former companions, knowing life in Coventry was going on without her while she’d been trapped in a boarding school with a bunch of rich English kids.
And then she’d become just like those rich English kids, the kind of kid who wore a uniform with a plaid skirt and knee-highs, who earned stellar grades and never climbed trees or made silly vows with best friends.
The kind of kid who had no true friends. Because fathers could die and mothers could send you away and friends could be separated by an ocean, and life was too uncertain.
Chelsea slid her phone into the pocket of her capris and headed for the back door. The heat hit as soon as she stepped onto the wraparound porch. The temperature had to be in the upper eighties now, a scorcher for northern New Hampshire.
Dylan was on the lawn, staring at the vista. He looked her way as she walked toward him.
“Eric ran that license plate for me. The car belonged to someone named Zeke Granger.”
“Never heard of him.”
Dylan angled his phone, and she saw a driver’s license. The man was forty-two. Dark hair, dark eyes.
Big nose.
She looked from the photo to Dylan, who was studying her reaction. She asked, “Is that the guy who shot at us?”
“I think so. Does he look familiar?”
She took the phone to better see the image, then closed her eyes and tried to remember the hooded man on the mountain.
“It could be the man who pushed me. But I’m not sure.” She handed Dylan the phone back. “What do you know about him?”
“Not much yet. He lives in Plymouth. How far is that from here?”
“Twenty, thirty minutes,” she said.
“At this point, all we have is a picture of his license plate drawn by an autistic guy.”
“But…” She closed her eyes, tried to bring her thoughts in line. “But this means that… that the guy who shot at us, probably also the guy who pushed me off that cliff, was on the mountain when Mum was in the accident.”
Dylan didn’t say anything. Just waited.
“Which means… Maybe she went there to meet him. Maybe…” Because Chelsea couldn’t come to terms with it. Her mother’s death had been ruled an accident. A tragic accident, but not… She met Dylan’s eyes. “My mother was murdered?”
“We don’t know anything for sure.”
She gazed at the view but didn’t really see it. Why? Why would somebody do this to her family?
“We have the license plate,” Dylan said.
She forced herself back to the conversation. “And a picture of the guy who pushed me. I didn’t get a good look at the man’s face, but that image looks like Dougie’s drawing.”
“I’m going to call Cote and tell him what we’ve learned.”
“Tell him to take Mr. Early with him to question Dougie. He’s a special needs teacher. Last I heard, he still worked for the Coventry school district.”
“Cote will know him?”
“If not, he should be able to find him easily. If Mr. Early can’t do it, I can accompany Cote to see Dougie.”
Dylan’s head bobbed, but his lips closed. “At this point, I’d like you to keep a low profile. Not sure I want you back up on that mountain anytime soon.”
She slid her cell from her pocket. “It’s working again.”
“Good news,” he said.
“I got a few calls from an old friend who works at HCI. She left a message saying she’d been hearing rumors. Maybe we could go see her, see if she has any information that might help us.”
And maybe Chelsea just wanted to see Tabby. She needed a friendly face.
“She’ll be at Hamilton?”
Chelsea shrugged. “I assume so. Shall I call her? Maybe we could meet somewhere.”
He looked past her, seemed to be thinking. After a moment, he said, “I’d like to see the company, get a feel for it.”
“You think it’ll be safe?”
“I doubt our friend Zeke would try anything in plain sight. And even if he would, we’re not going to warn them we’re coming.”
The ride to the HCI offices was quiet. Chelsea couldn’t wrap her mind around what they’d learned.
Her mother had been murdered.
Ten days before, she’d learned of her mother’s death. For ten days, she’d fought the urge to imagine what happened. Internalizing the horror wouldn’t help her deal with the death. Better to press on than to look back. But now, tired, shocked, horrified as she was, she couldn’t stop herself from wondering what had happened on that mountain.
Why had Mum gone there before dawn that morning? To meet someone. Probably. That Zeke character? Chelsea doubted it, or maybe she just didn’t want to believe Mum had been associated with him. So Zeke, or she’d been meeting someone else. Who, and why? And why the clandestine meeting away from town under cover of darkness? It didn’t make sense.
And then… what? Had she been run off the road? Had someone forced her into that tree?
Had Mum understood what was happening? Had she known someone was trying to kill her? Had she known her killer?
The thought brought a shudder.
“Hey, you okay?” Dylan’s deep voice pulled her back to the present. He turned down the air conditioner. “I know it’s a shock.”
“How could this have happened again?”
A pause. He maneuvered the truck around a corner, then glanced at her. “Again?”
“Daddy was murdered, too.”
Dylan said nothing, but a moment later, he pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned building. When Chelsea was a kid, she and Tabby used to ride their bikes here and rent movies. All that was left now was a faded sign—Vacation Video and Game Rentals—and a few broken windows.
He parked and turned to face her. “Your father was murdered?”
“A long time ago. In New York City. A mugging gone wrong.”
Dylan’s lips compressed, eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.
“What?” she asked.
He shook his head, swallowed.
“Dylan, what?”
He didn’t look at her, just put the truck back in drive. “Nothing. Probably nothing. It’s just… I don’t play odds, and real-life events aren’t about odds. But, if I were a betting man… The odds against it are astronomical. That your father was murdered in a random mugging and your mother was killed in a car accident that may have been murder.”
“What are you saying?”
He pulled out of the lot and onto the narrow country road. “Nothing. I don’t know. Just… It feels unlikely, that’s all.”
“It’s what happened.”
He looked her way, forced a smile. “I know. Sorry.” He rested his hand on top of hers and squeezed.
Funny how natural holding his hand felt, considering she hadn’t even known this man thirty-six hours. But he’d become a friend, a trusted confidant. Her lifeline. He was thinking something he wasn’t sharing, but she didn’t demand he tell her. He would, if she needed to know. Right now, she couldn’t handle any more revelations. Maybe Dylan understood that. He seemed to understand her better than anybody else in the world. Anybody alive, that was.
They weaved their way through the traffic of downtown Coventry, with its restaurants and ice cream parlors and souvenir shops and all the tourists taking advantage of the warm temperatures, and parked in front of a three-story brick building with a steeply pitched roof.
Dylan peered through the window. “I imagined something more modern.”
“My parents bought this building when they first started the company because the town was going to tear it down. It’s been here over a hundred years. The original factory was on the first floor.”
“Not anymore?”
Chelsea laughed. “Heavens no. The factory outgrew this building within a couple of years. It’s down the street.”
They stepped into the reception area. Where the outside was rustic, the inside was modern—hardwood floors, straight-backed chairs lining the walls, and a sleek reception desk. Behind the desk, a thirty-something woman stood. Chelsea didn’t know her name but assumed, based on her wide eyes, the woman knew hers.
She approached and held out her hand. “Chelsea Hamilton.”
“I’m Ida.” The receptionist shook but didn’t smile. “Pleased to meet you.”
“We’re here to see Tabitha Eaton. Is she available?”
“Go on back, seeing as how it’s your company and all.”
She would, if she had any idea where Tabby’s office was. “If you’ll just ring her.”
A moment later, the door beside the reception desk opened, and Tabby hurried into the room. By the time Chelsea stood, Tabby was there, wrapping her in a hug. She whispered, “Thank God you’re okay.”
The hug felt so genuine, it brought tears to Chelsea’s eyes. She backed up, smiled, a little embarrassed by her reaction.
Tabby took her hand and squeezed. “I’ve been so worried. Someone said you were pushed—”
“Let’s discuss it privately.” Dylan’s voice was low beside Chelsea.
Tabby’s attention shifted to him. She started to speak, but Dylan cut her off. “You have a private office, or is there a conference room we can use?”
“Come on.” She held Chelsea’s hand just like she had when they were girls. A muffled buzz indicated the receptionist had unlocked the door, and Dylan opened it for them. The first floor was filled with cubicles and lined with offices. The second floor, Chelsea knew, looked nearly identical. They didn’t go all the way to the office area, though, but stopped at the elevator. Here, with the exposed brick walls, shades of the original interior remained.
Even when they were on the elevator, alone, they didn’t speak. Chelsea stole a glance at her old friend. Tabby had always been a free spirit, a live-out-loud kind of girl. When Chelsea’d seen her at the funeral a week prior, she’d barely noticed her, hardly been aware of anything or anyone. Funny how grief could gray out so many details and bring others into sharp focus. She could still imagine the overbearing scent of flowers and see the cold, hard lines of her mother’s casket. She could hear Amazing Grace, performed by someone behind a curtain, and imagine the feel of the cold pew through her black skirt. But the faces of the people who’d hugged her were blurry and obscure. Their words all melded together in one long string of I’m sorry for your loss… call if you need anything… it’s such a shock… we all loved her so much…
Chelsea couldn’t picture Tabby being there, though she knew she had been, hadn’t left her side. Tabby was so much better at friendship than Chelsea was.
Now, she took in Tabby’s appearance. Her long brown hair was pulled into a bun on top of her head. She wore a beige jacket over a teal blouse, black slacks and high-heeled sandals. She’d applied makeup, though it didn’t completely cover the freckles dotting her nose and cheeks.
Tabby caught her looking. She squeezed her hand just as the elevator dinged.
The third floor was unlike the first two. To the left, another receptionist guarded the doors to the executive offices. Tabby led them through a door on the right and along the corridor until they reached Tabby’s office.
Chelsea followed Tabby inside.
After Dylan closed the door, Tabby asked, “What happened?”
“This is Dylan O’Donnell,” Chelsea said, “a private investigator. He’s helping me figure that out.”
The two shook hands, and Tabby gave Chelsea a one-raised-eyebrow look. Chelsea knew her friend well enough to know exactly what the woman was thinking. You picked a hottie.
Chelsea had to agree.
Tabby indicated the single chair in front of her desk. “I’ll just grab another—”
“I can stand,” Dylan said.
Tabby shrugged. “If you don’t mind…” She rounded the desk and picked up the receiver on her phone. “Let me just send my calls to voicemail. Otherwise, we’ll be interrupted every two seconds.” She pressed a couple of buttons and set the receiver down.
Chelsea took the lone chair. Dylan leaned against a file cabinet. The office wasn’t very big, and there were no windows, but Tabby had made the space her own. Family photos—her parents and siblings. Pictures of places she’d been—ski slopes, hiking trails, mountaintops. The woman was an adventurer.
“What’s going on?” She directed the question toward Chelsea, but Dylan stepped forward and lifted his phone so she could see it.
“Do you know this man?”
Tabby peered at the screen. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“His name is Zeke Granger. Does he work here?”
“Never heard that name.”
“Has he ever?”
She tapped on her keyboard, read the monitor. “He used to. Want me to send you the details?”
“Please.” He rattled off an email address, then asked, “What have you heard?”
Tabby shifted to face Chelsea. “Someone tried to kill you?”
Chelsea opened her mouth, but Dylan, again, spoke first. “Can you tell us exactly what you heard?”
“I heard from a guy down in sales whose sister is on the police force that someone pushed you off Ayasha View. But if that were true…” She took Chelsea in, squinted. “How could you have survived that?”
“It’s a long—”
“What else?” Dylan asked.
Chelsea glared at him. What was his problem?
“Right,” Tabby said. “I heard you were shot at, but nobody knows any details about that.”
“Anything else?” Dylan asked.
“Just… nothing else like that. But other stuff, yeah.”
Dylan prompted, “Like?”
“I guess there was a break-in? There were cops all over the executive offices, and someone said private investigators, too.”
“In accounting,” Chelsea said. “They stole some of my private information.”
Tabby’s eyebrows rose. “Like what? Are you safe?”
Chelsea’s gaze flicked to Dylan. “He’s helping me get to the bottom of it.”
“This is all confidential,” he said. “Anything else you’ve heard?”
Tabby reached across the table, and Chelsea took her hand.
“Whether it’s true or not, I don’t care.” Tabby’s earnest expression held hers. “The company’s struggling. I get that. You have to do what’s right for HCI, which may not be what’s right for Coventry.”
“I am not planning to relocate the factory, if that’s what you heard.” Chelsea let go of her friend’s hand. “It never even crossed my mind.”
Tabby sat back. “Look, you don’t owe me anything.”
Chelsea’s short laugh was not amused. “I thought we were friends.”
“So did I,” Tabby said. “But if you don’t want to tell me—”
“You think I’m lying?”
Tabby’s lips pressed together, turned down at the corners.
Chelsea sat back. “What?”
Tabby reached in the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a piece of paper. She glanced at it and slid it over.
Dylan stepped behind Chelsea’s chair to read over her shoulder.
It looked like a torn piece of paper had been scanned and then printed on another piece of paper. The jagged edge of the original showed as a faint shadow on this one. Whatever had been on top—letterhead, the first part of the message, the lines indicating the writer and recipient—they’d all been torn off, leaving just a couple of lines.
…investigate possible locations for factory relocation to Mexico or SE Asia. Per C. Hamilton, must be near a major airport and have reliable shipping and employee pool.
“I never suggested to anyone…” Chelsea couldn’t imagine where this had come from. “I have no intention of relocating the factory.”
Tabby’s face showed no reaction. “Okay.”
Dylan picked it up, turned it over, but there was nothing else on the sheet. “Where did you get this?”
“It was emailed as an attachment.”
Chelsea sat back. “Who sent it?”
“I’m not sure where it originated. I started hearing rumors and talked to Sid.”
Chelsea turned to Dylan. “Sid runs the factory.”
“Sid forwarded it to me,” Tabby said. “He said he’d gotten it from someone in corporate, but he didn’t say who. I have heard names, though, people who are supposedly on the ‘relocation team.’” She made air quotes around that. “One name keeps floating to the top. Laura Blanchette.”
Dylan said, “Laura was your mom’s friend, right?”
“Right.” How could Laura possibly be involved? She knew Mum’s loyalty to Coventry. Of course Laura wasn’t involved in any relocation, because there was no relocation. The rumors were a lie. Even Chelsea was beginning to forget that.
It was insane—the idea that she would move the factory, and the idea that someone would want everyone to think she would. By the look on Tabby’s face, even her best friend believed it.
Dylan set the sheet back down. “I assume there’s been a lot of gossip.”
“Oh, yeah.” Tabby focused on Dylan. “Lots of talk.”
“Can you tell us what you’ve been hearing?” Dylan asked.
“Uh…” Her gaze flicked to Chelsea’s.
Chelsea waved a hand. “Go ahead. I’m sure it’s all horrid, as well it should be. I haven’t even taken my place yet, and the employees already think I’m planning to destroy their lives.”
“I know that’s not true,” Tabby said. “You just have to do—”
“What’s right for the company. So you said.” Chelsea couldn’t force any kindness into her voice for her old friend. How could Tabby have believed this foolishness so quickly? “But Coventry and HCI are a team, always have been. What’s right for Coventry is right for Hamilton Clothiers.”
Tabby blinked. “Okay. I know your mom thought that—”
“As do I.” Chelsea’s voice had risen. She wanted to force the anger away but feared what lay behind it. How could she run a company when everybody distrusted her before she’d even taken her place? And who would do such a thing?
And why?
“The rumors?” Dylan prompted.
Tabby turned to him. “First, you should know, the rumors started before Mrs. Hamilton died. There’d been rumblings. We try to keep our ears out for stuff like that—”
“We?” Dylan asked.
“In human resources.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“I had a few employees come to me looking for more information. I knew nothing and assured them that Hamilton had roots in Coventry and asked them to please not spread the rumors further. Of course, that never works. And this rumor proved more insidious than most. Since Mrs. Hamilton’s death, the rumors have been flying.” Tabby smiled at Chelsea. “They don’t know you like I do. They don’t trust you.”
Tabby did know her, and she didn’t trust her either. Chelsea said nothing.
Her friend focused on Dylan again. “Anyway, it got to where we were hearing timelines—by spring, all manufacturing would be closed down. Ridiculous rumors. I mean, even if it were the plan, it would take more time than that to make it happen.
“And then, that”—Tabby waved toward the piece of paper—“started circulating, and people panicked. I first saw it on Wednesday, but I think it’d been around at least a day before that. I hear production’s down. We’re falling behind on orders. People are scared and angry. And then Earl in packaging gave his two-week notice today. That set off a firestorm. People think he’s got some sort of inside information. Truth is, Earl’s wanted to relocate to Manchester ever since his daughter gave birth to his first grandchild.” She sighed, shook her head. “The timing was terrible.”
“What is your job here?” Dylan asked.
“Officially, I’m the training manager. Unofficially, I’m in charge of employee relations. When people are worried or hate their jobs, when they want to move into another department or have a problem with a coworker or a boss, they come see me.”
“Sounds like a lot of responsibility,” he said.
“Normally, I love it. This week, it’s been rough.” She focused on Chelsea. “It would be easier if I knew for sure what to tell them. But everything’s so uncertain right now with nobody running the company.”
“Frank is managing it,” Chelsea said.
Tabby sat back. “Yeah. I mean, theoretically.”
Chelsea didn’t like the tone. “What does that mean?”
“Look, I know he’s your uncle, and he’s a good guy. Everybody loves him. But he’s not your mother. He’s hardly been here since she died. He sent out a memo telling people that the company has no plans to relocate, but…” She shrugged, sat back. “Problem is, everybody likes Frank, but nobody thinks he’s up for the job of running Hamilton. Since he took over operations, production has been down, sales have been down. The general scuttlebutt is that Frank doesn’t know what he’s talking about. His memo had no effect.”
Dylan perched on the arm of Chelsea’s chair. “What would quell the rumors?”
Tabby met Chelsea’s eyes. “Make a public statement, one that would be printed in the newspaper, and then call an all-hands meeting with the employees. Tell them personally what your plans are, not only to not relocate, but how you plan to turn the profits around.”
“I don’t have enough information about what’s been going on to have a solid plan for that yet.”
“You don’t need a solid plan,” Tabby said. “Just… Hmm. Maybe just some plans to make plans. Maybe even…” Tabby looked beyond Chelsea a moment, then snapped her fingers. “Why not ask the employees what they think? Ask them to send you their best thoughts for turning the numbers around. It wouldn’t hurt to get their input, and it would be a good first step to returning to that feeling of solidarity HCI used to have, before…”
Her words trailed off, and she straightened some papers on her desk. “Anyway, I’m just—”
“Before what?” Chelsea asked.
Tabby glanced at Dylan, but Chelsea kept her eyes on her old friend. “Before what, Tabby?”
“Before Frank took over operations.” Her lips flattened. She swallowed and sat back. “He’s just… He was great in sales. In operations, he’s not been good for the company. I don’t know why exactly. I can’t put my finger on it. But ever since he took over operations, morale has been going downhill. Maybe it would have, anyway. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”
“Who ran operations before Frank?” Dylan asked.
Tabby smiled, probably relieved at the simple question. “Chelsea’s mother was in charge. But then, the board reorganized, decided Mrs. Hamilton should focus on bringing in new business and Frank could run day-to-day operations.”
Dylan turned to Chelsea. “Did your mother like that idea?”
“I don’t think so. But, even though she was the majority shareholder, she took the board’s advice on most things. She often counseled me to gather trustworthy people and consider their advice carefully. That’s what she did.”
“The board was wrong about that one,” Tabby said. “Like I said, I like your uncle, but…”
Great. So it seemed like her first tasks as CEO would be to remove her own uncle from his position and try to keep the employees from mutiny.
Tabby started to run a hand through her hair, but her fingers tangled in the bun. She wrenched it out, let the hair fall around her shoulders. “Sorry. It’s driving me…” She snatched a ponytail holder from her desk, yanked her hair back, and worked it in a ponytail as she continued. “If someone’s trying to kill you out of spite or to keep you from moving the factory, then stopping the rumors would maybe stop the killer, right? So if you call an all-hands meeting—”
“She’s not doing that,” Dylan said.
Chelsea looked up at him. “I don’t see why not.”
“You don’t?” He stepped away from her chair and turned to face her. “Someone’s trying to kill you, Chelsea. We’d need to hire a private security firm to ensure your safety. Everyone would need to be searched. Until we stop the killer—”
“If I put an end to the rumors, then maybe the attempts on my life will stop.”
“Even if that were the case, would you be comfortable knowing the person who pushed you off a cliff, who shot at both of us, is free? And might be in the room?”
“I didn’t think of that.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing over the V of his golf shirt. “It’s just too dangerous.”