Chelsea trembled. An ice cream cone. Nothing else. But the angry words, the angry crowd… Thank God Dylan had been there.
She glanced at him. His gaze was forward, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he maneuvered through the parking lot.
“Thank you for—”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It wasn’t your fault. That kid—”
“Not for that. For the…” He swallowed, didn’t glance her way. “It won’t happen again.”
Oh. The kiss. His lips had barely brushed hers, so she wasn’t sure it could even be called a kiss. And it wasn’t as though she’d pushed him away. In fact, everything in her had wanted to draw closer.
And then he’d protected her. Gotten her safely back to the truck.
A wave of affection and desire skimmed her like a warm breeze. Except… what had he said?
It wouldn’t happen again.
Fine, then.
She’d never asked if he had a girlfriend. Or, maybe he was one of those married men who couldn’t be bothered with a ring.
No. That didn’t seem right. And, in all the time they’d spent together, surely a woman’s name would have come up.
She studied him, tried to guess what he was thinking. A fruitless activity, to be sure. “I’m not saying I disagree,” she said. “We barely know each other. Though the time we’ve spent together…” Where was she going with this? She should just shut up. But they had spent a lot of time together, eaten multiple meals together, gotten shot at together… It seemed equivalent to a few dates, anyway. Not that she’d been thinking along those lines, not until he’d kissed her.
Right. She’d only imagined him as a Scottish warrior, kilt and all. Because she was starved for love and affection. Ridiculous woman.
A muscle in his cheek pulsed.
“What are you thinking?” There, that was a simple question, and it didn’t reveal too much.
“I let myself get distracted. It won’t happen again.” He stopped at the main road. “Do you know where Laura Blanchette lives?”
“Of course.”
He tapped the wheel with his fingers.
“Turn left.”
He did, and, except for her occasional directions, they drove in silence.
A few minutes later, Chelsea said, “Turn into this one,” and pointed at Mrs. Blanchette’s driveway. Chelsea hadn’t been here in years, not since before Daddy died, before she’d been shipped off to school in England. The trees surrounding the property seemed taller, the bushes that lined the front of the house larger. Otherwise, the two-story Colonial hadn’t changed much over the years.
“How long were she and your mom friends?”
“As long as I can remember,” Chelsea said. “She has a daughter who’s mentally ill. She’s been institutionalized as long as I’ve known the Blanchettes. I think Daddy and Mum helped pay for her care. I think it was because of the daughter that the Blanchettes divorced, though I can’t be sure.”
“How long has she been on the board?”
Chelsea thought back. “I don’t know. A long time.”
When he parked, she didn’t wait for him to come around but hopped from the truck and started toward Mrs. Blanchette’s door. Her foot hurt, but she managed.
It opened before she got there, and the woman rushed outside. Her silver hair was puffy and coiffed, her makeup perfect. She took Chelsea’s hands. “I’m so glad to see you. I wish you’d called. I’d have had something prepared.”
Chelsea kissed her cheek. “We just ate. I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”
“Nothing more important than you.” She turned to Dylan and held out her hand. “Laura Blanchette.”
“This is Dylan O’Donnell,” Chelsea said.
“The private investigator.” She shook Dylan’s hand. “Frank told us about you.”
“Us?” Dylan asked.
“Well, me, and I assume the rest of the board members.” She turned back to Chelsea. “You two come in.”
When they stepped inside the house, memories assailed Chelsea. Mrs. Blanchette was quite a bit older than Chelsea’s mom, but the two had been good friends, and she and Mum had come here often over the years. She could still remember where Mrs. Blanchette kept the toys—in the antique wardrobe in the sunroom, the addition Mrs. Blanchette and her then husband had built that overlooked the treed backyard. When she was a child, Chelsea had always gone straight to the cabinet and pulled out the old wooden puzzles and antique dolls. The stack of games, everything from Candyland to Monopoly, the boxes browned and faded with years, stayed in the wardrobe. Chelsea used to dress up the dolls while her mother and Mrs. Blanchette drank coffee. There were always warm cookies and milk if she let the ladies visit without interrupting.
Chelsea had spent a lifetime playing alone, so that hadn’t been difficult.
Now, they walked through the formal dining room and the kitchen before coming to the bright sunroom. There was no central air, but with the trees shading the house and the ceiling fan overhead, it was cool enough. Chelsea paused to take in the familiar space. The old brown couch had been replaced with an off-white leather sectional, and the carpet had been replaced with tile. The windows, which covered the top half of three walls, were open, and a breeze carrying the scent of Mrs. Blanchette’s prize roses lifted the gauzy curtains.
Chelsea settled on the soft couch. Dylan chose a ladder-back side chair as far from Chelsea as he could be.
“How’s Emmy?” Chelsea asked.
“Oh, about the same.” Laura focused on Dylan. “Paranoid schizophrenia.” She turned back to Chelsea. “The meds help, but…” She shrugged as she sat beside Chelsea. She rested her hand on Chelsea’s knee. “How are you?”
“Holding up.”
Mrs. Blanchette looked at Chelsea’s boot. “Is the story true, then? Frank said you were hurt?”
Chelsea gave her a quick rundown on the events of the previous couple of days. Mrs. Blanchette’s face paled as she talked.
When she was finished, Mrs. Blanchette said, “First Maeve, now… I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Mrs. Blanchette.” Dylan took out his notebook and pen. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Laura, please.” She patted Chelsea’s knee. “You, too, dear.”
That’d take some getting used to. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs.… Laura turned back to Dylan. “I’ll help if I can.”
“The day of the memorial, Chelsea told you she planned to go up to the mountain the next morning. Do you remember who else was there for that conversation?”
Laura looked at Chelsea. “You don’t remember?”
“That day is a blur.”
“Let me think,” Laura said. “Nancy was there. And Marsha, of course. And… Karen, Gail, Peggy… You probably don’t remember her very well. She married Charlie.” She tapped her lips with an index finger. “I think that was it.”
Dylan glanced up from his notebook and asked Chelsea, “You know all those people?”
“Mum’s friends.”
Laura added, “Arthur was sitting at the bar. He might’ve overheard.”
“Arthur is a board member, right?” Dylan asked.
“Correct,” Laura said. “Been on the board since the beginning. Old Coventry family.”
“Did you tell anybody about Chelsea’s plans?”
Laura sat back. “Why would I have?”
He shrugged. “No reason. But if it came up in conversation, or—?”
“I wouldn’t have told anybody Chelsea’s plans,” Laura said. “And I doubt any of the other women would have either.” She shifted toward Chelsea. “I’ve always been so careful about not sharing your mother’s secrets with anybody.”
“Secrets?” Dylan asked.
Laura waved away his question. “Not like… Maeve was well known in this town, at least by sight. I was blessed to truly know her, had since she and Peter started HCI. I held her confidences closely, always. Even things like where she liked to eat lunch and what her daily schedule looked like, I never told anybody anything about her.” She patted Chelsea’s knee again. “I’ve always treated you the same, and I always will.”
“I appreciate that.”
Dylan cleared his throat. “Someone circulated a false memo, or part of one, which makes it look as if Chelsea is planning to relocate the factory out of the country.”
“Oh, dear.”
Dylan tapped his pen on his notebook. “Your name came up as someone working on the relocation plan.”
“My name?” Her eyebrows lifted, and she shifted her gaze from Dylan to Chelsea and back. “How curious. There is no official plan.”
Official? Chelsea started to ask about that, but Dylan pressed on.
“Any idea who might’ve started the rumors?”
“None, but…” Laura focused on Chelsea again. “The idea had come up a few times.”
“Mum would never—”
“Of course not. But the board… There are shareholders to consider. It’s our job to consider the overall health of the company, not the town of Coventry.”
Chelsea scooted away from the older woman in order to face her better. And to distance herself from the idea of it. “Are you in favor of moving the company?”
Laura sighed and leaned against the back of the sofa. “I grew up here. This is my home. I don’t want to do anything that would be bad for Coventry. But as a board member, I have to think of what’s best for HCI.”
“So, yes?” Chelsea clarified.
“I’m… conflicted. The reasoning is valid. Cheaper real estate, cheaper labor. We’re having a hard time competing in the new environment. Our competitors are moving their factories to Vietnam and Bangladesh, where they pay the people—”
“Slave wages,” Chelsea said. “That’s not what Hamilton Clothiers stands for.”
“I know, dear. I know. I’m not saying it’s something the company should do. Just that it doesn’t surprise me that the rumors are flying.”
“A fake memo isn’t a rumor,” Chelsea said. “Somebody’s trying to make it seem as if it’s my idea.”
“That is unfortunate.”
Dylan stood suddenly. Swallowed. Sat again. “Ma’am, somebody has tried not once but twice to murder Chelsea. If his motivation is that he thinks she’s trying to move the factory, then I’d say it’s more than unfortunate.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Any idea who’d do it?” he asked.
She looked toward the ceiling and blinked a few times before facing him again. “I’m afraid not. Though I’ve been on the board for years, I don’t know many people who work for the company, just those in upper management. And even them, I don’t know very well.”
He opened his phone, pressed a few buttons. “You ever heard of a man named Zeke Granger?”
She tilted her head to the side. “I believe…” She turned to Chelsea. “Didn’t he work for HCI years ago? I think he got fired.”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Chelsea said.
“Right. Of course not. You were probably a child. Your mother would have…” Her words trailed, and she took a breath. “You might ask Frank about him. He should know.”
Dylan stood and showed her his phone screen. The image of Zeke Granger stared back at them.
She shook her head. “Nope. Not familiar.”
Dylan took his seat again. “One more question. Any idea what Chelsea’s mother was doing on Mt. Coventry the morning she died?”
Laura shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I have been racking my brain trying to remember if she told me anything, or if there was any reason… Truth is, I can’t think of a single good reason for her to be there at that time of day. It makes no sense at all.”