Chapter 3 - THE SECRET ELISE KEPTThe police moved us into a private consultation room.
I sat opposite my wife beneath fluorescent lights while Christmas night disappeared outside the window.
“Elise,” I said, “tell me everything.”
She stared at her wedding ring.
For eleven years, I had trusted that woman with every vulnerable part of my life.
My fears.
My finances.
My children.
The ugly grief after my father died.
The business I nearly lost during the recession.
Yet she was sitting three feet away looking like a stranger who knew something about why her mother apparently wanted me dead.
Finally she whispered, “It started with my father.”
Martin closed the door.
Elise looked furious with him.
“You had no right.”
“Our kids are in intensive care.”
“They’re not your kids.”
“They’re my niece and nephew.”
“Enough,” I said.
Elise closed her eyes.
“When I was nineteen, Dad started getting sick.”
She described episodes that sounded horrifyingly familiar.
Weakness.
Nausea.
Confusion.
Fainting.
Robert Ward had visited three physicians.
Blood tests showed abnormalities, but symptoms vanished and returned unpredictably.
Then, one morning, he died.
Celia claimed doctors believed it was cardiac failure.
Elise believed her.
For years.
“So what changed?” I asked.
“After Mom moved last spring, Martin found Dad’s old medical records.”
Martin nodded.
“The records included toxicology results.”
My mouth went dry.
“What did they show?”
“Medication levels that didn’t make sense.”
Robert had been prescribed heart medication.
According to the records Martin discovered, the concentration found in his blood after death was many times greater than prescribed.
“Was there an investigation?”
Martin shook his head.
“The doctor raised concerns. Mom told everyone Dad had accidentally doubled his medication.”
“And you think she did it?”
“I don’t know what I think.”
Elise snapped, “You told me you were sure.”
“I told you it deserved investigating.”
I turned toward Elise.
“When did he tell you?”
“September.”
Three months earlier.
“You’ve known for three months?”
“I knew there were questions.”
“And you never told me.”
“I wanted proof.”
“No. You wanted silence.”
She flinched.
That was when she told me about Thanksgiving.
Celia had discovered Martin was requesting Robert’s medical records.
She demanded they stop.
Elise tried to calm her.
Celia panicked.
Then she said the sentence I had overheard.
If Daniel finds out, you’ll lose everything.
“I asked what she meant,” Elise said. “She claimed she was talking about the family falling apart.”
I stared at her.
“You believed that?”
“I wanted to.”
There it was.
The most dangerous sentence families ever use.
I wanted to believe it.
Because believing the alternative meant admitting the people who raised you might be capable of something monstrous.
Officer Grant entered again.
He told us Celia’s car had been located near Interstate 95.
Empty.
Her phone was inside.
So was her purse.
The item she used near the plates wasn’t.
Police were obtaining search warrants.
Meanwhile, hospital toxicology results came back.
The children had ingested a powerful prescription heart medication.
“Was Celia prescribed it?” I asked.
“No.”
“What about Robert?”
Officer Grant hesitated.
“Yes.”
The room went quiet.
The same medication.
Eight years apart.
I felt nauseated.
Martin sat slowly.
“My God.”
But a question bothered me.
“If I was the target, why touch the children’s plates?”
Officer Grant answered carefully.
“We aren’t certain she did.”
We reviewed the footage again.
This time frame by frame.
Celia approached the turkey.
She removed a small bottle.
She appeared to sprinkle or pour something.
Then she moved toward Noah and Sophie’s seats.
But zooming in revealed something important.
She wasn’t touching their plates.
She was moving the place cards.
Elise had written names on decorative cards.
Celia switched two.
Mine and Noah’s.
Why?
Then I remembered.
Before dinner, Sophie had insisted Noah sit beside her.
We had switched seats.
My plate became Noah’s.
The poisoned serving had been placed for me.
Noah ate it.
Sophie stole two bites from his plate because children apparently believe food tastes better when stolen from a sibling.
That explained why Noah became critically ill, Sophie moderately ill, and everyone else largely escaped.
Rachel had eaten a bite of Noah’s stuffing while joking that children always got larger portions.
One poisoned plate.
Three victims.
One intended target.
Me.
But why?
Officer Grant asked the same question.
I had no idea.
At least I thought I didn’t.
Then Martin asked me something strange.
“Did you ever finish looking into the Lakeview property?”
Elise immediately looked at him.
I frowned.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Two weeks earlier, I had been reviewing an old property transaction for my construction firm.
A commercial lot outside Richmond.
My company planned to purchase it for redevelopment.
During title research, my attorney discovered an old holding company connected to the land.
Ward Development Partners.
Celia’s late husband had been a minority owner.
At first I considered it coincidence.
Then we found something else.
A twenty-five-year-old escrow account that had never been properly dissolved.
Current estimated value?
$2.8 million.
The beneficiaries included Robert Ward’s estate.
Meaning potentially Elise and Martin.
I had planned to tell them after Christmas.
But I had mentioned the discovery casually to Celia.
Her response had been strange.
She dropped her coffee.
Then asked exactly what records I had found.
At the time, I thought she was surprised.
Now I understood.
“What was Ward Development Partners?” I asked Martin.
He shook his head.
“No idea.”
Elise did the same.
Officer Grant began taking notes.
I pulled out my phone and called my attorney, despite the hour.
He answered groggily.
“Merry Christmas, Daniel.”
“Ben, I need you to listen carefully.”
I explained enough to wake him completely.
Then I asked the question.
“Who else was involved in Ward Development Partners?”
Keyboard sounds.
“One minute.”
We waited.
“I’ve got four original members. Your father-in-law, Robert Ward. A Thomas Bell. Everett Knox…”
He paused.
“And?”
“Celia Ward.”
Elise gripped the table.
My attorney continued.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“The company dissolved after allegations of embezzlement.”
“How much?”
“About $1.6 million.”
“When?”
“Two months before Robert Ward died.”
Nobody spoke.
Ben kept reading.
“Robert apparently contacted an accountant and requested a forensic review.”
I looked at Elise.
Her eyes had gone wide.
“Was the review completed?”
“No. According to this, Robert died before the meeting.”
Officer Grant leaned closer.
“Ask who handled the company bookkeeping.”
I did.
Keyboard clicks.
Then Ben answered.
“Celia Ward.”
Martin whispered, “Jesus.”
The pieces rearranged themselves.
Robert discovered missing money.
Robert planned an audit.
Robert became sick.
Robert died.
Years later I accidentally uncovered the dormant account connected to the same company.
Celia learned I was investigating.
And suddenly I became sick—or was supposed to.
Officer Grant’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Then stood.
“We may know where Mrs. Ward went.”
“Where?”
“Police received a report from a storage facility fifteen miles away. A woman matching her description entered around midnight.”
I knew the facility.
Because my attorney had mentioned it during our property research.
Ward Development Partners had rented a storage unit there twenty-five years earlier.
And the lease had never been canceled.
May you like
Celia wasn’t running away.
She was destroying evidence.
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