Chapter 29
I’d made it home for a couple of hours of blissful, dreamless sleep before Mother woke me for a shower. I dressed in velvet leggings and a thick, creamy, hand-knit sweater. Two cups of French press coffee later, I was just about steady on my feet. Mother, looking happier than she had since I’d arrived home, installed me in the solarium with a blanket over my knees. “The guests will be here in a few minutes and you can play hostess. The caterer already arrived, so there’s nothing to do.”
The chief appeared, shaved and showered, a half-hour early to update us, but Mother left him alone with me after promising coffee. The sun shone over last night’s crust of snow and in the windows like stage lights, making the room cozy and warm.
Mary Ellen still refused to talk and had hired a big name New York lawyer to represent her. However, Jennifer had shown up at the police station about an hour after Mary Ellen’s booking and offered to talk about twenty-five years’ worth of dirty Andrew Winters deeds. Without Andrew there to cow her into submission, she wanted a clean start for herself and her children. The chief studied my face. “You were the target—ever since you and Hugh had your, uh, discussion.”
I felt my face heat up like an electric burner. He laughed. “Hetty saw you go upstairs together and called Mary Ellen. The Winters were already planning to kill Hugh because he’d pieced together the blackmail scheme, but now they weren’t sure what Hugh told you. Andrew knew he could keep your Mother quiet by threatening your life, but you,” he shook his head slightly, “were a wild card. You left all those years ago because you hated your mother. You even told Mary Ellen that at lunch.”
“You couldn’t possibly know what I said to Mary Ellen.”
He grinned. “The job of a small town cop is to be in everybody’s business. I have spies everywhere, and that waiter is a terrible gossip. Very useful for keeping track of Ms. Winters. Did you know she set that barn fire as a test run?” He shook his head again. “I know more about people’s lives around here than anyone should.” He paused, unhooked his fingers and then hooked them up again. “The point, Clara, is that they hired you onto the campaign to find out if you knew about the blackmail. If you did, Mary Ellen had plans.”
I pushed the sleeves on my bulky sweater up, as if letting in some cooler air would ease my sudden claustrophobia. “There’s one thing I don’t understand. Winters told me Pete killed Hugh. But Pete told me there was female DNA on Hugh’s body, implying it was Mother’s.”
“Pete didn’t know whose it was, until Hetty died. Her autopsy revealed healing scratches, and her DNA matched the sample found on Hugh. Maybe Hetty got physical, and Hugh pushed her away. We can only guess, since there’s no one left to tell us what happened.”
I remembered how Hetty had looked at Hugh at Mother’s fete, her burning eyes—and the long distance shots on the cottage wall. She had stalked him, at least a little.
“Then the threat escalated. You turned Mary Ellen in for her sins, and we caught Pete. When you offered the reading, Mary Ellen took her chance.”
“What about Hetty?”
“Poor Hetty.” He rubbed his thumbs together and looked out at the snow. “Jennifer claims Hetty knew about the rape—overheard your mom and Loretta talking years ago. When she needed help getting clients and making a name for the farm, she went to Mary Ellen, who, at first, ignored her.
“Finally, Hetty pulled her trump card. To keep her silent, Mary Ellen seduced her and implicated her in their blackmail scheme with those photographs. The one with the blurred blonde that you found in Hetty’s trash was supposed to set up your mother. When you and Bailey apologized, Hetty grew a conscience; Mary Ellen decided she was a liability and had Pete kill her. What a screwed up family, even Jennifer. I’ll never understand how people stand by and watch injustice be done.”
“But what was Pete’s motivation? Did he really want to be chief of police?”
He rubbed a thumb along a crease in his slacks. “Soon after I arrived, he told me he deserved my job. I didn’t pay it much mind; some guy always thinks he deserves more than he’s getting.” He shook his head, pulled his gaze from the purity of the winter scene and looked at me. I looked at him.
“There’s an old nature/nurture debate,” I said. “Until recently, I would have told you I was my father’s daughter because of nature. Now, I know I’m my father’s daughter because of nurture.”
He seemed about to speak when Mother poked her head in. “Some of the other guests have arrived.”
David Warren and Andrew Winters Junior walked into the solarium accompanied by a teenage girl. She was the spitting image of Mary Ellen.
I slid to my feet and put out my hand. “You must be Emma.”
She ducked her head, her face reddening. She looked briefly at David, who nodded slightly. She stuck her hand awkwardly into mine, but gave it a surprisingly firm shake. “I’m sorry about Mum—what she did,” she said.
“It’s not an issue,” I said.
“She killed your father.” She glanced at David again. It was the kind of glance I would have given my own father.
“My father was a landscape architect who died fifteen years ago. I didn’t know Mr. Winters.” And in that moment, fifteen years of guilt lifted free. I gestured at the couch. “Please sit down.”
I turned to Andrew Junior. “I’m so sorry,” I said.
Tears filled his eyes. “Mom’s been telling us stories. I didn’t
