name is Edward,” I said without thinking, then barely breathed, but Joyce didn’t seem to have caught the slip. She kept her eyes on the road, relaxed hands on the wheel, and her expression benign.
“Maybe on paper,” she said, “but he goes by Ned.”
He never did, at least, not during the time I had known him. He had been Ned growing up, like I was Maggie growing up. But the sophisticated venture capitalist was always Edward.
“Is this a game for him?” I asked in annoyance. Joyce shot me a surprised look. More gently, I explained, “You have to wonder why someone with that kind of money would want to take over as GM.”
“Maybe for the same reason Jack Quillmer bought The Devon Times or Nina Evans became Town Manager. Maybe he struck out in another life and needed a change. Maybe he’s tired of the money thing and wants a new challenge.” She sighed. “Who knows if it’ll work out? At least he’s not changing what the Inn is best known for. But he is changing other things. He was just telling me; that’s why I was in there so long. He’s bringing in upgraded computers to replace the ones the government has, but mostly we’re switching to tablets. They’ll be here this week. He hired a team to set them up and teach us how to use them. The security system is state-of-the-art.”
“On a tablet?”
“That’s what he says.” She took a quick breath. “By the way, Elizabeth Rossi was in the farm store just now. She said Grace knows the journalist whose account was hacked.”
I frowned at the road, trying to decide how best to handle Edward Cooper—and he was Edward, not Ned. It wouldn’t be so bad if he was buying the bookstore or the general store. But The Devon Inn and Spa were the town’s major draws.
He had to have come here for a reason. I had no idea what it was.
And Joyce seemed to be waiting for a response … to … Elizabeth Rossi … saying … that Grace knows the journalist whose account was hacked.
“You told me that this morning,” I replied. The Feds may have seized the Spa computers, but its files were synced with iPads already belonging to the GM and Joyce. Once they heard the name Benjamin Zwick, they did a search. “Grace does his hot stones whenever he’s in the area.”
“Beyond that.”
We exchanged a glance. She, too, was remembering how Grace had left work today.
“I told Elizabeth that I didn’t think it was true,” Joyce said, with her eyes on the road again. “I never saw them together. He always requests her when he calls for an appointment, but most of her repeats do.” She paused. The silence stretched as she waited. Finally, she said an uneasy, “Maggie?”
She wanted me to deny that Grace had had an affair with Ben, but I couldn’t. “I don’t know.” I searched for something I might have missed, but all I could do was repeat, “I don’t know. But does that have to have anything to do with anything her son allegedly did?”
Of course, it did. If you were looking for motive, resentment of a mother who was having an affair might work.
* * *
Joyce dropped me back at the Spa, pulling up close enough to my truck so that I was able to lock myself inside before the lone remaining reporter reached it. When he knocked on the window, I gave an angry headshake and motioned him off. As soon as he backed away, I gunned the engine, and left. My heart was in my throat until I wheeled out of the lot and modulated my speed, but it jumped right back there as soon as I passed under the covered bridge, turned south on the Blue, and heard a rustling right behind me—inside my truck. I was about to scream when the inimitable mess of sandy curls that was Chris Emory appeared between the seats.
7
“Jesus,” I breathed and, trembling, veered to the side of the road.
“Don’t stop, no, no, no, do not stop, they’ll be on our tails for sure!” The words came in a rush, aimed back, then front, then back again, and his voice cracked every few syllables. Puberty had it wavering between man and boy, still not yet sure which way to go, and stress didn’t help. Between the press now and the arraignment tomorrow, he had to be terrified.
“No one’s following,” I said. I had been checking since I