Chapter Three The Greenhouse
The sun had already begun to sink behind the towering oaks surrounding Bellweather House when the first detective arrived.
His name was Daniel Reeves.
Fifty-two.
Calm.
Deliberate.
A man whose reputation rested less on dramatic arrests than on his remarkable ability to make guilty people reveal themselves.
He stepped into the library carrying nothing more than a leather notebook and a folded raincoat over one arm.
"I'm sorry we're meeting under these circumstances."
Arthur shook his hand.
"I wish we weren't."
Reeves glanced around the room.
Margaret stood near the fireplace.
Michael Donovan remained by the window.
Lena sat quietly in an armchair, her bandaged elbow resting against a cushion.
Only one person was missing.
"Where is Camille Mercer?"
Margaret answered first.
"In the east guest suite."
"Is she being watched?"
Michael frowned.
"Of course."
"By whom?"
"Two security officers."
Reeves nodded once.
"I'd like to speak with her."
Michael reached for his radio.
"Ethan, bring Miss Mercer down to the library."
Static answered.
Then another voice.
"Sir..."
Something about the guard's tone immediately changed the atmosphere.
"She's not here."
Michael stood.
"What do you mean she's not there?"
"The room is empty."
Silence.
"The balcony door is open."
Five minutes later, the second floor buzzed with controlled urgency.
Detective Reeves examined the guest suite without speaking.
The bed had not been slept in.
A suitcase lay open across the luggage stand.
Most of Camille's clothing remained neatly folded inside.
Only a few essentials were missing.
Her passport.
Her wallet.
One pair of walking shoes.
Nothing else.
Reeves stepped onto the balcony.
The wrought-iron railing overlooked the east garden.
Nearly fifteen feet below, flower beds softened the drop.
One rosebush had been crushed.
"She climbed down."
Michael nodded.
"Our cameras?"
"Disabled."
"When?"
"About twenty minutes ago."
Reeves turned slowly.
"Who has access?"
Michael didn't answer immediately.
"The same three people."
Arthur.
Margaret.
Camille.
"No signs anyone else entered the system?"
"Our IT department is checking."
Reeves looked toward the woods beyond the estate.
"She planned this."
By nightfall, local police had begun searching the surrounding roads.
Roadblocks appeared at every exit leading away from the Wexler property.
Yet Detective Reeves seemed strangely unconcerned.
Margaret noticed.
"You don't think she's trying to escape."
"I think she's already escaped."
"You believe she planned today?"
"I believe people rarely poison billionaires without preparing an exit."
Lena couldn't sleep.
The events of the morning replayed endlessly inside her mind.
The capsule.
The shove.
The broken crystal.
Camille's frightened expression.
It wasn't the face of someone caught making a mistake.
It had been the face of someone whose carefully constructed plan had suddenly collapsed.
Unable to rest, Lena wandered downstairs shortly after midnight.
Bellweather House had always felt peaceful at night.
Tonight it felt unfamiliar.
Too quiet.
She walked past the dark dining room.
Past the silent music room.
Toward the rear corridor leading to the gardens.
Then she stopped.
A faint light flickered outside.
The greenhouse.
Someone was inside.
Lena frowned.
No one entered the greenhouse after dark.
Margaret had strict rules about that.
She opened the rear door carefully.
Cool night air brushed her face.
The gravel path crunched beneath her shoes.
By the time she reached the greenhouse...
The light was gone.
The glass door stood slightly open.
"Lena?"
No answer.
She stepped inside.
The greenhouse smelled of damp earth, jasmine, and citrus blossoms.
Rows of orchids stretched beneath hanging lamps.
Everything appeared untouched.
Almost.
Near the far wall, one clay flowerpot lay on its side.
Fresh soil covered the stone floor.
Someone had moved it recently.
Lena knelt carefully.
The soil felt loose.
Too loose.
She pushed it aside with her fingers.
Something solid touched her hand.
An envelope.
Plain.
Cream-colored.
No writing.
Her heartbeat quickened.
She opened it.
Inside were three photographs.
The first showed Arthur twenty years younger.
Standing beside another man outside an old manufacturing plant.
Both were smiling.
The second photograph showed the same man...
At a funeral.
The third made Lena's breath catch.
A young woman stood beside him.
Perhaps twenty years old.
Honey-blonde hair.
Blue eyes.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
Camille.
Much younger.
But unmistakably Camille.
She turned the photograph over.
Written in faded ink were six words.
For my daughter, someday she'll understand.
Lena stared at the handwriting.
She had seen it before.
Arthur's.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Lena spun around.
Detective Reeves stood quietly inside the doorway.
"I thought someone came in here."
He noticed the photographs immediately.
"What have you found?"
Without speaking, Lena handed him the envelope.
Reeves examined each picture carefully.
His expression remained unreadable.
"Did anyone else see these?"
"No."
"Good."
He placed everything back inside the envelope.
"We're taking these."
"Who is the man?"
Reeves looked toward the dark garden outside.
"I don't know yet."
"But I have a feeling Arthur does."
Ten minutes later, Arthur sat alone in his private office when Reeves entered.
He placed the photographs silently on the desk.
Arthur looked down.
The color drained from his face.
For nearly a minute he said nothing.
Finally...
He whispered a single name.
"Samuel."
Margaret looked sharply at him.
"You know him?"
Arthur closed his eyes.
"I knew him."
"Who was he?"
"My business partner."
"I thought your first partner died before Wexler Industries was founded."
Arthur nodded slowly.
"That's what everyone believes."
Margaret frowned.
"What does that mean?"
Arthur picked up the second photograph with trembling fingers.
"It means..."
"...Samuel Mercer never died in an accident."
The room fell completely silent.
"He disappeared."
Arthur's voice had become barely audible.
"And I spent twenty-two years believing he abandoned everything."
Detective Reeves leaned forward.
"And Camille Mercer?"
Arthur stared at the third photograph.
A sadness unlike anything Lena had ever seen settled across his face.
"I've never met Samuel's daughter."
Margaret looked from the photograph to Arthur.
Then back again.
Her eyes widened.
"You think..."
Arthur nodded once.
"I think Camille is Samuel's child."
No one spoke.
Because if that was true...
Then Camille hadn't married Arthur Wexler for love.
She hadn't married into the Wexler fortune by chance.
She had spent years getting close enough to destroy the man she believed had ruined her father's life.
But one question still remained.
Detective Reeves asked it quietly.
"If she's Samuel's daughter..."
"...who taught her that Arthur Wexler murdered him?"
Arthur looked toward the rain-covered windows.
"I have no idea."
Just then Michael Donovan rushed into the office without knocking.
"Mr. Wexler."
Arthur stood.
"What is it?"
"We found Camille's car."
"Where?"
"Abandoned."
"Any sign of her?"
Michael's expression hardened.
"No."
"But there was something left inside."
He held up a transparent evidence bag.
Inside rested a second red capsule.
Identical to the first.
And beneath it...
A handwritten note.
May you like
Only four words.
This isn't over yet.
