Chapter 13 - ELEANOR PRICE
Finding Eleanor took three days.
She was seventy-one.
She lived in Wisconsin.
And when Detective Ortiz contacted her, Eleanor refused to speak by phone.
So we drove.
Naomi came with me.
Ortiz came separately.
Eleanor lived in a small yellow house near Lake Geneva.
She opened the door before we knocked.
One look at my face and she began crying.
“You look like Charles.”
Nobody had ever told me that before.
We sat at her kitchen table.
Eleanor kept both hands around a mug she never drank from.
“I should have said something.”
Ortiz turned on a recorder.
“Say it now.”
Eleanor nodded.
“That night, Mrs. Whitmore came to the house around six.”
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Mr. Whitmore was angry.”
“About money?”
“Yes.”
“They argued?”
“Badly.”
“What did you hear?”
Eleanor looked at me.
“Your grandfather said, ‘You will not steal from Evelyn to save Preston.’”
My throat tightened.
“He used my name?”
“Yes.”
“What happened next?”
“Mrs. Whitmore told me I could leave early.”
“Did you?”
“I went to the laundry room.”
“Why?”
“I knew Charles would need help cleaning after dinner.”
Ortiz nodded.
“What did you hear?”
“A glass breaking.”
“When?”
“Maybe twenty minutes later.”
“What did you do?”
“I went toward the study.”
Her hands began shaking.
“Mrs. Whitmore was standing over him.”
My body went rigid.
“Grandpa?”
“He was sitting in his chair.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Conscious?”
“Barely.”
I could hear my heartbeat.
“What was my mother doing?”
“She was holding a glass.”
Ortiz leaned forward.
“What kind?”
“A short water glass.”
“Was there anything unusual?”
“White residue.”
“Did you see her put anything inside it?”
“No.”
That mattered.
Even now, we needed truth.
Not revenge.
“What happened?”
“Mrs. Whitmore told me Charles had taken his heart medication.”
“Was that normal?”
“I didn’t know.”
“She called Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Emergency services?”
“Not immediately.”
My skin went cold.
“How long?”
Eleanor looked down.
“Maybe fifteen minutes.”
Naomi swore softly.
“Why?”
“She said Charles sometimes had episodes.”
“My grandfather had cardiac symptoms and she waited?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Fifteen minutes.
Maybe it meant nothing.
Maybe everything.
“Then?”
“Your father arrived.”
“Before the ambulance?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He lived fifteen minutes away.”
“What did they do?”
“They argued quietly.”
“About what?”
“I couldn’t hear.”
“And the glass?”
Eleanor looked directly at me.
“Your mother handed it to me.”
“What did she say?”
“Wash this.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
My heart jumped.
“What?”
“I put it in a plastic bag.”
Everyone at the table froze.
Ortiz leaned forward.
“Where is it?”
Eleanor looked toward the hallway.
“I kept it.”
For fourteen years.
She had kept the glass.
Wrapped in plastic.
Hidden inside an old metal lockbox.
She brought it to the table with trembling hands.
Detective Ortiz did not touch it directly.
She photographed everything.
Then she called evidence technicians.
I stared at the cloudy glass inside the bag.
A tiny white crust still clung near the bottom.
Perhaps it was nothing.
Mineral residue.
Old medication.
Dust.
But if it was something else, fourteen years of family history might be about to collapse.
Before we left, Eleanor grabbed my hand.
“There is something I need you to know.”
I looked at her.
“Your grandfather did not trust Margaret.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She tightened her grip.
“You don’t.”
Her eyes filled.
“He installed a small camera in the study.”
My breath caught.
“What?”
“A security camera.”
“Where?”
“Inside the bookshelf.”
Ortiz stood.
“Was it recording that night?”
Eleanor nodded.
“But your father removed it after Charles died.”
My stomach dropped.
“Where is it now?”
“I don’t know.”
Then Eleanor looked at me with an expression I could not read.
“But I know who does.”
“Who?”
May you like
She took a breath.
“Your Aunt Claire.”
