Chapter 7 - BELLMEREBellmere looked peaceful enough to hide a murder.
The lake stretched dark blue beneath a September sky, surrounded by birch trees and hills beginning to turn gold.
The Ashford summer house stood at the northern edge of the water.
White siding.
Gray stone chimneys.
Wide veranda.
Beautiful.
Expensive.
Isolated.
Exactly the sort of place wealthy families build when they want privacy.
Exactly the sort of place secrets survive.
I arrived at 11:57.
Alone.
At least, that was what Victor Hale was supposed to believe.
Detective Torres had officers positioned in the woods.
Dominic was in an unmarked SUV almost a mile away.
He hated every second of the plan.
“I should be the one going in,” he'd argued.
“He asked for me.”
“He's using you.”
“Then let him.”
“I don't like it.”
“You don't have to.”
His eyes had held mine.
“I don't want you hurt because of my family.”
“My family has been hurting because of yours for twenty-five years.”
The words landed harder than I intended.
Again.
I touched his arm.
“This is how we finish it.”
He nodded.
Now I walked toward Bellmere wearing a microphone hidden beneath my blouse.
My heart hammered.
The front door opened before I knocked.
Victor Hale looked older than the photographs.
Tall.
Thin.
White hair.
A cane in his left hand.
But his eyes were sharp.
“You look like Ruth.”
“I'll try not to take that as an insult.”
He smiled.
“Still angry.”
“Still guilty?”
His smile disappeared.
“Come in.”
Summer at Bellmere rested above the fireplace.
I nearly stopped.
There it was.
The painting that had defined my mother's life.
Hale watched me looking at it.
“Beautiful, isn't it?”
“You broke into Ashford House for it?”
“I recovered property.”
“It's not yours.”
“Neither is truth, Miss Bennett. People only borrow it until someone richer replaces it.”
I wanted to hit him.
Instead I remembered Torres's instructions.
Keep him talking.
“Why frame my mother?”
Hale walked toward a drinks cabinet.
“You think I framed Ruth?”
“You were paid by Harrison Ashford.”
“A lot of people were paid by Harrison.”
“You buried evidence.”
“I followed evidence.”
“You knew the painting was never stolen.”
He poured himself water.
“No. At the time, I knew only what I was shown.”
That surprised me.
“You expect me to believe you were innocent?”
“Not innocent.”
He drank.
“Useful.”
“What's the difference?”
“An innocent man doesn't know he's part of the lie.”
“And you?”
“I knew enough not to ask the wrong question.”
He nodded toward the painting.
“Harrison told me Ruth stole it. Samuel Bennett's financial problems made the story plausible. Ruth had access. No forced entry. No other suspect.”
“You were also working for Reed.”
“Yes.”
“Conflict of interest.”
“Absolutely.”
No shame.
“Why admit this now?”
“Because the people whose reputations I protected are mostly dead.”
“Except Lucille.”
“Lucille was never the villain you think.”
“I know.”
That made him study me.
“So you've been learning.”
“Why did you buy Bellmere?”
His grip tightened around his glass.
There.
A reaction.
“Investment.”
“Try again.”
He smiled.
“You really are a provenance researcher.”
“And you're really a bad liar.”
The smile faded.
“Harrison believed James left evidence here.”
“You spent sixteen years looking?”
“Longer.”
“You never found it.”
“No.”
“Maybe because James was smarter than you.”
The glass hit the table.
“James was reckless.”
“He exposed your client.”
“He abandoned his children.”
“Did he?”
Victor stared at me.
“Careful.”
“Why? You already threatened me.”
“I invited you.”
“You grabbed a nine-year-old boy.”
His expression flickered.
“I never touched a child.”
My pulse jumped.
“What?”
“I wasn't in Ashford House.”
“You stole the painting.”
“No.”
“Then how did you get it?”
“It was delivered to me.”
“By whom?”
He smiled.
Now we were somewhere important.
“I wondered when you'd ask.”
“Who?”
“Malcolm Reed.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“No.”
“He called me the night the compartment opened.”
“You're lying.”
“Maybe.”
But the possibility fit.
Malcolm had access to the emergency security key.
His father had been Harrison's attorney.
He knew Hale.
And he'd repeatedly tried to stop us from examining the documents.
“Why would Malcolm give you the painting?”
“To buy my silence.”
“About what?”
Hale moved toward the windows.
“His father.”
“Charles Reed?”
“Harrison had money. Charles had intelligence. Together, they built the entire operation.”
“So Charles wasn't merely Harrison's lawyer.”
“He was his partner.”
“Did Malcolm know?”
“Eventually.”
“When?”
“Before Charles died.”
“Which means Malcolm inherited more than legal files.”
Victor's mouth curved.
“Now you're thinking.”
I felt sick.
“Was Malcolm the third person sending postcards?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To keep Lucille waiting.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It does if hope keeps someone from investigating death.”
The sentence chilled me.
“You know what happened to James.”
Victor looked toward the lake.
“Yes.”
“Is he dead?”
A long pause.
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Who killed him?”
Hale's answer was almost gentle.
“Harrison didn't.”
That was not what I expected.
“Charles?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Hale looked at me.
“James Ashford.”
I stared.
“You just said he's dead.”
“He killed the man he used to be.”
“What does that mean?”
“He disappeared voluntarily.”
“For twenty-five years?”
“Not twenty-five.”
My breathing slowed.
“How long?”
“Seven.”
“Seven years?”
“He lived until 2008.”
Dominic had lost his father at fifteen.
He could have had him back for seven years.
“Where?”
“Europe. Mostly Portugal.”
“Why didn't he come home after Harrison died?”
“Harrison died in 2009.”
Right.
James died first.
“How?”
“Cancer.”
My throat tightened.
“Did Lucille know?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I found him.”
“When?”
“2007.”
“Did Harrison send you?”
“No.”
“Charles?”
“Yes.”
“What did Charles want?”
“The evidence James still possessed.”
“And?”
Victor looked almost amused.
“James had destroyed most of it.”
“Most?”
“He kept enough to ruin Charles.”
“The final account list.”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“That is why we're here.”
Victor opened a drawer and removed a pistol.
My entire body went cold.
Through my hidden microphone, Torres would hear everything.
But Bellmere's walls were thick.
Officers were not supposed to move until there was an immediate threat.
A gun qualified.
I hoped.
Victor pointed it toward the floor.
“Don't be dramatic.”
“You're holding a gun.”
“Because Malcolm will arrive soon.”
I stared.
“You're afraid of him.”
“For good reason.”
The front door opened.
Victor's face changed.
Too late.
Malcolm Reed stepped inside.
No suit today.
Dark jacket.
Gloves.
And a gun of his own.
“Well,” Malcolm said. “This is disappointing.”
Victor raised his weapon.
Malcolm shot first.
The blast destroyed the quiet lake morning.
Victor collapsed.
I screamed and dropped behind the sofa.
“Police!” Torres's voice exploded through the room.
Malcolm fired toward the window.
Glass shattered.
Officers returned fire.
I crawled toward Victor.
Blood spread across his shoulder.
“Stay down,” he gasped.
Malcolm ran through the rear door.
Dominic appeared seconds later.
He wasn't supposed to be there.
Of course he wasn't.
“Alyssa!”
“I'm okay!”
He grabbed me.
For one second, his arms wrapped around me so tightly I couldn't breathe.
Then Torres yelled from outside.
“He's heading toward the boathouse!”
Dominic looked at me.
The clue.
Where the wind could not reach us.
We both understood.
Malcolm wasn't escaping.
He was going after the evidence.
We ran.
The boathouse sat at the bottom of the hill.
Malcolm disappeared inside.
Police surrounded the structure.
Torres shouted for him to surrender.
No answer.
Then smoke rolled from a window.
“He's burning it,” Dominic said.
Before anyone could stop him, he ran inside.
“Dominic!”
I followed.
Yes, it was stupid.
I knew it was stupid while I did it.
Smoke filled the old wooden structure.
At the far end, Malcolm was tearing boards from the floor.
Fire climbed a wall behind him.
Dominic tackled him.
The gun skidded across the planks.
I kicked it through an opening into the lake.
Malcolm punched Dominic.
Dominic hit him back.
Hard.
“You knew about my father!”
Another punch.
“You protected them!”
Malcolm laughed through blood.
“So did your mother!”
Dominic froze.
That half-second nearly cost him.
Malcolm grabbed a broken board.
I slammed a fire extinguisher into his arm.
He screamed.
Police rushed in.
Within seconds, Malcolm Reed was on the floor in handcuffs.
Torres dragged us outside while firefighters attacked the flames.
I coughed until my chest hurt.
Dominic sat beside me on the grass.
“You followed me into a burning building.”
“You went into one.”
“That wasn't the question.”
“You're welcome.”
He laughed.
It became a cough.
Then one of the firefighters approached.
“We found something.”
Underneath the boathouse floor was an iron hatch.
Beneath it, a concrete storm cellar.
The fire hadn't reached it.
Inside stood an old waterproof trunk.
Dominic stared at it.
The wind could not reach us.
James's clue.
Torres opened the trunk under police supervision.
Inside were files.
Microfilm.
Bank records.
A tape recorder.
And a sealed envelope.
On the front, in faded handwriting:
FOR DOMINIC ASHFORD
Dominic's hands shook as he opened it.
The first line broke him.
May you like
Son,
If you are reading this, then I failed to come home.
