Chapter 3 - THE MISSING HOUR
I read Frank’s message three times.
The handwriting was unmistakable. His capital letters always leaned slightly forward, as though even his words were in a hurry.
She is not who Jackson believes.
Jackson took the photograph from me.
“This was taken before Dad died.”
“Nearly a year before,” I said.
He examined Natalie’s face.
“She told me she never met him.”
Judith stood behind his shoulder.
“She appears to have done more than meet him.”
The photograph had been taken at the annual Harbor Lights Foundation gala, the same charity event where Natalie later claimed she had first met Jackson.
Except that event had taken place two years after Frank’s death.
The earlier photograph proved she had been moving in our circles long before she introduced herself to my son.
Detective Brooks placed the photograph into an evidence sleeve.
“Do you recognize anyone else?”
I pointed to two men.
“The tall man beside Frank is Leonard Voss, our former chief financial officer. The other is Grant Mercer. He advised several families on charitable trusts.”
Rebecca looked up sharply.
“Grant Mercer was indicted in Nevada.”
“For what?”
“Investment fraud and exploitation of elderly clients. The charges were dismissed after the primary witness died.”
I remembered Mercer clearly. He had possessed the smooth confidence of a man who treated every conversation as a negotiation. Frank disliked him immediately.
“Frank refused to do business with him,” I said.
“Why?”
“He said Mercer was selling sophistication to people too embarrassed to admit they did not understand it.”
Jackson sat in Frank’s chair.
“What does Natalie have to do with him?”
“We need to read the letter,” Judith said.
The sealed envelope carried only my name.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Margaret,
If you are reading this, I either waited too long to explain or I was prevented from doing so.
Three months ago, Grant Mercer approached Leonard Voss with a proposal involving the family trust. Leonard refused and came to me. Mercer appears to possess private information regarding Jackson’s succession rights, the wedding provision and your role as controlling trustee.
I believe the leak originated inside our legal or financial circle.
The young woman in the enclosed photograph introduced herself as Natalie Pierce. She claimed to represent the Harbor Lights Foundation. The foundation has no record of her employment.
She asked questions about Jackson.
At first, I dismissed them as social curiosity. Later, I learned she had contacted two former employees and attempted to obtain information about our family routines.
I hired an investigator.
Before the investigation was completed, Leonard died.
The police classified his death as an accident.
I am not convinced.
I have placed the investigator’s preliminary notes in the red ledger. Do not confront anyone alone. Do not tell Jackson until you have proof. He has a generous heart and a dangerous need to believe people he loves.
Forgive me for frightening you.
Everything I built matters less than you and our son.
Frank
The room blurred.
Frank had died of a heart attack six months after writing the letter.
For four years, I had believed grief was the only reason I occasionally replayed his final week and wondered whether something had been wrong. He had been distracted. He changed the locks at our lake house. He asked me to review my medical power of attorney.
I thought he was confronting his age.
Perhaps he had been confronting something else.
Jackson read the letter over my shoulder.
“Dad knew her.”
“He investigated her,” Rebecca corrected.
Jackson opened the red ledger.
Inside were names, dates, bank transfers and photocopies of documents. Frank had organized the material with the precision he brought to every business problem.
The first section concerned Grant Mercer.
The second concerned Leonard Voss.
The third carried Natalie’s name.
Her legal name, according to Frank’s investigator, was not Natalie Pierce.
It was Natalie Vale.
Her mother, Patricia Vale, had been investigated in connection with two wealthy men who changed their estate plans shortly before their deaths.
No charges were filed.
Natalie had changed her surname after college.
Jackson turned page after page.
“She said her mother was a schoolteacher.”
“Her mother operated a private companionship service,” Rebecca said, reading the investigator’s notes. “The company targeted widowers and isolated retirees.”
“That does not prove Natalie did anything.”
“No,” I said. “The bedroom proves what she is capable of.”
He closed the ledger.
“I need to talk to her.”
Detective Brooks stepped forward.
“No.”
“She is my wife.”
“She is a suspect in an assault and possible conspiracy to commit financial exploitation.”
“You let her leave.”
“I did not have grounds to hold her.”
“Then I have the right to speak to her.”
“You also have the right to destroy evidence, warn a possible accomplice and place yourself in danger. I recommend exercising none of those rights.”
Jackson stood.
“I am not afraid of Natalie.”
I looked at him.
“Neither was I.”
That stopped him.
Police searched the rest of the property. The intruder had entered through the office window and left when Marisol activated a silent alarm. He had worn gloves and avoided the functioning exterior cameras.
Someone knew the estate’s security layout.
Someone knew about Frank’s drawer.
Only a handful of people could have known.
Frank.
The investigator.
Possibly Leonard Voss.
And whoever Frank believed was leaking information.
We returned to Judith’s townhouse shortly before midnight. I refused to remain at the estate while the security system was being replaced.
The blood test from the private clinic showed a sedative in my system.
Zolpidem.
I had no prescription for it.
The result did not prove who administered the drug, but it confirmed I had not slept naturally through someone shaving my head.
Detective Brooks called Natalie’s attorney.
By one in the morning, the attorney delivered an astonishing response.
Natalie claimed I had voluntarily taken a sleeping pill because I was anxious about the wedding.
She claimed she had watched me swallow it.
“She changes her story each time evidence appears,” Judith said.
Rebecca closed her laptop.
“That is useful. Contradictions create pressure.”
“Will she be arrested?”
“Possibly. But we need to understand the larger plan first.”
Jackson stood at the window, staring at the street.
He had changed out of his tuxedo but still wore the white dress shirt. A faint line remained on his finger where his new wedding band had been.
The ring now sat on Judith’s kitchen counter.
“Where did Natalie go?” he asked.
“Her attorney says she is staying at an undisclosed location,” Rebecca answered.
“With her mother?”
“We do not know.”
His phone buzzed.
Everyone looked at him.
The message was from Natalie.
Jackson read it silently.
“What does she want?” I asked.
He turned the screen toward us.
You are making the biggest mistake of your life. Your mother planned this. She has been lying to you for years. Ask her where she was during the missing hour the night your father died.
The room seemed to tilt.
“What missing hour?” Jackson asked.
I could not answer immediately.
Frank had died at the lake house.
I found him on the floor of his study shortly after ten at night. The medical examiner estimated he had suffered the heart attack between eight-thirty and nine-thirty.
I told the police I had been home all evening.
That was not entirely true.
I had left for approximately one hour.
“Mom?”
“I drove into town.”
“Why?”
“Your father and I argued.”
Jackson stared at me.
“You never told me that.”
“It did not seem important.”
“Dad died while you were gone.”
Judith moved closer to me.
“Margaret, what was the argument about?”
I had spent four years trying not to remember.
Frank received a phone call during dinner. He refused to tell me who had called. I accused him of hiding business problems and treating me like a child.
He told me secrecy was the only thing keeping us safe.
I became angry.
I drove to a nearby pharmacy, then sat in the parking lot until I calmed down.
When I returned, he was already dying.
“I bought aspirin,” I said.
Rebecca’s expression shifted.
“Do you still have the receipt?”
“After four years?”
“Did the police confirm your location?”
“They had no reason to.”
Jackson held his phone tightly.
“How does Natalie know you left?”
I looked again at Frank’s letter.
Do not tell Jackson until you have proof.
“She knows,” I said, “because someone was watching the house.”
Detective Brooks requested the original police file from Frank’s death.
At two-fifteen in the morning, she received the first digital documents.
The responding officer noted that the back door had been unlocked.
A drinking glass was found on the desk beside Frank.
It was never tested.
No autopsy was conducted because his physician confirmed a history of heart disease and the family did not request further examination.
I had not requested one.
I thought I was protecting Frank’s dignity.
Now I wondered whether I had protected his killer.
Jackson paced the room.
“Natalie is implying you had something to do with Dad’s death.”
“She is trying to divide us,” Judith said.
“She knows something.”
“Yes,” I replied. “But that does not make her version true.”
Another message arrived.
This one contained a photograph.
Frank sat at his desk in the lake house. The image had been taken through the window on the night he died. A digital timestamp showed 9:12 p.m.
Across from him sat Grant Mercer.
The photograph proved Frank had not been alone.
Beneath the image, Natalie had written:
Your mother came home at 9:47. Mercer left at 9:31. Frank was still alive when both of them saw him.
Jackson looked at me.
“Did you see Mercer?”
“No.”
“Did you see another car?”
“No.”
“Then how does she know the exact time?”
I understood the answer.
Natalie had not simply learned about Frank’s investigation.
She had access to the person who took the photograph.
She had access to whoever watched my husband die.
My phone rang.
The number was blocked.
Rebecca told me not to answer, but I did.
A woman spoke.
Her voice was older than Natalie’s and colder.
“Margaret Holloway?”
“Yes.”
“My daughter has made several mistakes.”
Patricia Vale.
I signaled for Rebecca to record the call.
“But canceling that transfer,” Patricia continued, “was a mistake of your own.”
“What do you want?”
“The red ledger.”
I looked toward the desk where it lay.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then your son will learn why Frank was still alive when you returned to the lake house.”
My breath stopped.
“What are you talking about?”
“You found him breathing.”
The memory struck me with physical force.
Frank on the floor.
His hand moving.
His lips forming a sound I could not understand.
I called emergency services. I performed CPR. I stayed with him until the paramedics arrived.
“What do you think Jackson will say,” Patricia asked, “when he learns you waited six minutes before calling for help?”
“That is not true.”
“Records can tell many stories.”
She ended the call.
Rebecca stared at me.
“Did you wait?”
“No.”
But something from that night returned.
My phone had been on the kitchen counter when I entered the house.
The emergency record showed my call at 9:58.
I had looked at the clock when I found Frank.
It was 9:52.
Six minutes.
Six missing minutes.
I remembered kneeling beside him.
I remembered his fingers gripping my wrist.
I remembered him forcing out one word.
Not help.
May you like
Not Jackson.
Natalie.
