“Please, I’ve already cheated death once today.” A beat passed. “So what happens now?”
“Well, technically, you’re supposed to give me a statement about what happened in the library, and I write it down. Then one of the officers types it up and you sign it. But I figured you probably have some questions for me.”
“I do.” Rafe was right. I was bursting with questions. “I’m still trying to put the pieces together and figure out what happened today. With the time capsule and Magnolia Hall. And everything else, I guess.”
“Where do you want me to start?”
“Trevor McNamara. What does he have to do with all this? And is it true? Did he really inherit Magnolia Hall?”
Rafe nodded. “Yes, he did. That codicil to the will was a bombshell. Trevor McNamara is Paley’s illegitimate grandson. Ron Paley never acknowledged him in life, but he always felt guilty about it. He even kept a copy of his birth certificate. That was another item in the time capsule, but the mayor didn’t make that one public. Trevor McNamara was illegitimate. Paley’s daughter, Eleanor, gave birth to him, and she and the baby were whisked out of town to cover it up.”
“Trevor is his grandson? So maybe that explains why I saw him in the Cypress Grove Library a couple of days ago,” I said softly.
“Apparently so. He said was trying to dig up some information on his biological family. He had no way of knowing what was in the time capsule, but he guessed that some family secrets would come to light.”
“So he knew he was part of the Paley family? And that’s why he came to Cypress Grove?”
“He’d always suspected it. He knew that this might be his one chance to claim his inheritance. A family in Massachusetts had adopted him as a baby, but he was sure he was related to the Paleys. He even carries around a picture of his mother, Eleanor Paley. Eleanor died shortly after he was born, but a maid mailed a photo of her to his adoptive parents, and they saved it for him.”
“So Trevor is Bobby’s half brother, but no one ever acknowledged him.”
“That’s right. Ronald Paley thought he could make things right by leaving Trevor Magnolia Hall. After all, the Paley family had ignored Trevor and rejected him his whole life. They’d do anything to keep up appearances. But in the end, Ron Paley tried to do the right thing and added that codicil to his will.”
“But the codicil never saw the light of day?”
Rafe nodded. “It disappeared in the fire at the courthouse, so the provisions of the original will were in place. Everything went to Bobby. If the time capsule hadn’t been dug up, Trevor’s claim to the estate never would have come to light. It was just sheer luck that Mr. Paley decided to put a copy in there.”
“But why did Mildred have to die? Did Bobby kill her because she knew too much?”
“He thought she did. Mildred suspected there was a missing heir, and she did one of those ancestry searches online. She’d always suspected that Paley’s daughter, Eleanor, was sent away because she was pregnant. In those days, an unwed mother was considered a disgrace to the family. Bobby had heard the rumors that he might have a half brother somewhere up north, but he ignored them. He killed Mildred because he was convinced she knew the secret and was going to go public with it.”
“So Shalimar wasn’t involved in the killing.” I shook my head, remembering the scene in the library, and a little chill went through me.
“No. She’s turned state’s evidence. She’s helping us nail Bobby.”
I was silent for a moment, turning everything over in my mind. Layers upon layers of misunderstandings, greed, deceit, and murder. As Lucille Whittier had said, “a lot happens in a small town.”
Suddenly I remembered the blue chips of paint. “Chris Hendricks!” I had almost forgotten about the jittery picture framer. “What happened? Did he kill Althea Somerset?”
Rafe nodded somberly. “Yes, I’m sure he did. He’s in custody right now. We got a warrant to search the historical society again and found the blue paint chips on the hall table, just like you said. And there’s more. We also found a footprint on the tabletop that’s a match for his sneakers. There were traces of blue powder on the top of the Parsons table—they’d gotten pushed under a doily. I guess that’s why the crime scene techs missed them the first time around. Plus they weren’t really concentrating on the hall, because Althea was murdered upstairs in her apartment.”
“So Chris Hendricks really did stand on the Parsons table to hang the picture back on the wall?”
“He must have. I think everything happened just like you said, Maggie. We’ve got him.” He glanced down at a notepad on his desk. “It seems Althea suspected the painting was valuable. One of the old dears at the historical society told us today that Althea planned on getting it appraised. She’d forgotten to mention it before. So Althea never would have given it to Hendricks. He figured he’d have to kill her for it.”
“It was all about money, about the painting,” I said, turning it over in my mind. I thought of Althea, losing her life over some paint on canvas. What a waste.
Rafe gave a wry smile. “It was definitely all about money. The root of all evil.”
“The painting is worth a lot?”
“A small fortune. The FBI tracked it down for us. It belongs to a wealthy Miami collector. No one seems to know how it ended up at the historical society. Hendricks thought he could get away with the perfect crime. He might have, if you hadn’t noticed those tiny blue paint chips.”
“Glad I could help.” There was something else.
Chantel.
“Did the tech guys ever clean up that security tape?”
“Afraid not. We can’t pin anything on Chantel. Maybe she broke in to Vera Mae’s, maybe not. We can’t prove it, and she’s not going to admit it.”
“I think she probably did,” I said. “She was snooping around, probably hoping to get that box of papers.”
“There’s enough of a cloud hanging over her that I think she’s lost her credibility. When the story gets out of who she really is, her career here is over.”
“I think so, too.” Vera Mae had told me after my show that Cyrus and Chantel were huddled in his office again. This time, when Chantel emerged, she told Vera Mae that Cypress Grove was too small for her, and she was ready to move on. “I wish I’d asked her how she did that trick with the pen.”
“What’s that?”
“She said she could do telekinesis. She made a ballpoint pen move across the console in the studio, just by using her mind. We were live on the air. It was pretty impressive.”
Rafe laughed. “That’s an old trick, Maggie. Was she alone in the studio at any time before she did the trick for you?”
“I thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. I might have zipped back to my office to get some notes,” I said finally. “But what could she have done? How would she make the pen move?”
“Magnets, Maggie. That’s the secret.”
“Magnets?”
“Two magnets—that’s all you need. She probably planted one under the counter, out of sight, and another in the ballpoint pen. All she had to do was slide her hand under the counter and move the magnet. Once she had her hand on the magnet, she could make the ballpoint pen move anywhere she wanted.”
“Oh.” I laughed. “She really had me fooled. Maybe I’m too gullible, too trusting.”
“Or too easily impressed. You’re full of surprises. I thought you didn’t believe in magic. That’s what you’ve always told me.” He had a devilish glint in his eye, and my pulse jumped as he crossed the room in a few powerful strides.
“Have I?” I thought for a moment. “Well, maybe I spoke too soon. Because there are some types of magic I really do believe in. At least I think I do.” I remembered the scene in the town square. I’d been thinking of the word “catalyst,” and to my amazement, Chantel had said the word out loud.
I stopped mulling over the problem when Rafe shut the door to his office, a smile playing over his lips.
Then he locked eyes with me, his black eyes flashing, and it dawned on me. He swept me into his arms and pulled me close to him, so close I could hear his heart beating.
“Do you believe in this kind of magic?” he said, nuzzling my neck. “Or maybe this?” He planted a string of kisses below my ear, setting my pulse thrumming. “Or how about this?” He brushed his lips against mine; his lips were incredibly warm and soft. I felt myself melting. I gave a happy little sigh, tightened my arms around his neck, and snuggled against him.
“You’re very persuasive, Rafe,” I murmured. “I think you just made a believer out of me.”
He gave a low, sexy chuckle, and I felt my heart start to tap-dance in my chest. “Maggie, my love, that’s exactly what I was hoping for.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mary Kennedy
is a former radio copywriter and the award-winning author of forty novels. She is a clinical psychologist in private practice and lives on the East Coast with her husband and eight eccentric cats. Both husband and cats have resisted all her attempts to psychoanalyze them, but she remains optimistic. Visit her Web site at
www.marykennedy.net
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