Chapter 8 - THE WOMAN AT EVERY THANKSGIVING
Margaret came to my house smiling.
That was the frightening part.
“Clara, sweetheart.”
She tried to hug me.
I stepped back.
Her smile flickered.
“What’s wrong?”
“Sit down.”
Naomi had instructed me not to accuse her of murder.
So I did not.
I asked about the trust.
Margaret sighed.
“Oh, this old business.”
“Did you create companies using my name?”
“For administrative purposes.”
“Without telling me.”
“You were young.”
“I was thirty-one.”
“You weren’t interested in finance.”
There it was.
The family version of Julian’s mistake.
Silence meant ignorance.
Disinterest meant permission.
“What is Davenport Coastal?”
Her eyes shifted.
Tiny.
Enough.
“Real estate.”
“Do you own part?”
“No.”
“Did Dad know?”
“Richard knew everything.”
“Did he know you were using my trust?”
“Your father was controlling.”
“You picked up his heart medication.”
Margaret stopped.
Then smiled.
“I often helped him.”
“Why?”
“Because he was my brother.”
“Dr. Price received money from Davenport after Dad died.”
Her face changed.
Finally.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing.”
I leaned back.
“I’m asking.”
She stood.
“This is offensive.”
“So is forging my signature.”
“I never forged anything.”
Interesting.
I had not mentioned which document.
Naomi noticed too.
“You know about the signature?”
Margaret froze.
Then recovered.
“Julian called me.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“This morning.”
Of course.
Even suspended and cornered, my husband was still moving pieces.
“What did he tell you?”
“That Evelyn was trying to destroy the family.”
“Which family?”
Margaret stared.
Good question.
She left without answering.
Two hours later, Julian disappeared.
His phone shut off.
Mia received a message.
MEET ME WHERE WE STARTED.
She knew the location.
A restaurant where Thomas first introduced them.
We alerted investigators.
Then another message came.
To me.
From Julian.
DON’T TRUST MARGARET. SHE KILLED YOUR FATHER.
My hands shook.
Naomi said, “Do not assume he is telling the truth.”
“I know.”
Then another message.
I HAVE PROOF.
Location attached.
Celestia.
My yacht.
Of course.
Julian had returned to the place where he thought he owned everything.
Authorities wanted to handle it.
But Julian demanded me.
So I went.
With security tracking every step.
I found him on the upper deck.
Alone.
No Mia.
No champagne.
He looked exhausted.
“Did Margaret kill Dad?”
“I think so.”
“Think?”
He handed me a folder.
Nine-year-old bank records.
Margaret had paid Dr. Price.
But not directly.
Through Thomas.
“Why did you keep this?”
“Insurance.”
Again.
“You knew my father might have been murdered.”
“I suspected later.”
“When?”
“Two years after his death.”
My stomach twisted.
“And you said nothing.”
“I was already involved.”
“Involved how?”
“I had taken Thomas’s money.”
“So you protected yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Every road leads there with you.”
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
Then he handed me a second document.
A life insurance policy.
My father.
Beneficiary changed six months before his death.
Not my mother.
Not me.
A trust entity.
One controlled by Margaret.
Payout:
$8 million.
My chest tightened.
“She had motive.”
“Yes.”
“Does that prove murder?”
“No.”
At least he had learned that much.
Then a sound came from below deck.
Julian went pale.
“You came alone?”
“No.”
“Who is below us?”
He whispered:
“I don’t know.”
A gunshot cracked.
Julian shoved me behind the bar.
Another shot.
Glass shattered.
Security moved.
A woman ran from the lower cabin.
Margaret.
She held a gun.
My aunt.
The woman who carved Thanksgiving turkey beside my father.
Her face twisted.
May you like
“You should have left this alone.”
And in that instant, every question about whether Margaret was capable of violence disappeared.
