PART 3 — THE NIGHT FRANK DIED
“Frank wasn’t alone when he died.”
The words seemed to stay in the kitchen after Colleen stopped speaking.
Paula gripped the back of the chair.
I stared at my sister-in-law.
“Who was with him?”
Colleen looked at the open back door as though Dale might appear there again.
“Dale.”
Paula made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes the truth is so terrible your body cannot decide how to receive it.
“No,” she said.
Colleen nodded.
“No,” Paula repeated. “Dad died at home. Mom found him.”
“I know.”
“Dale told me he was at work that day.”
“He lied.”
My legs suddenly felt weak.
I lowered myself into the chair.
I remembered that day too clearly.
Frank had complained of pressure in his chest at breakfast.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing that frightened either of us.
He had kissed my forehead and told me he was going to lie down.
I left for the pharmacy.
When I came home, he was on the bedroom floor.
I called 911.
I screamed his name until the paramedics pulled me away.
The doctor said heart attack.
Massive.
Quick.
There was nothing anyone could have done.
At least that was what I had believed.
“Why was Dale there?” I asked.
Colleen wiped her face.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You just said you knew.”
“I know he was there. I don’t know why he went.”
Paula turned on her.
“How do you know?”
“Because Dale called me.”
“When?”
“About twenty minutes before your mother called you.”
Paula went completely still.
I felt the kitchen shrink around me.
“What did he say?”
Colleen hesitated.
I slapped my palm against the table.
“What did he say?”
“He said Frank had collapsed.”
My breath caught.
Paula whispered, “Before Mom found him?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t he call an ambulance?”
Colleen looked down.
“He said Frank was already gone.”
My stomach twisted.
“He is not a doctor.”
“I told him that.”
“What did he say?”
“He said calling anyone would only make things worse.”
Paula’s face hardened.
“What does that mean?”
Colleen began trembling again.
“I didn’t understand then.”
“But you understand now?”
She nodded.
I stood.
“Tell me.”
“He said there had been an argument.”
“About what?”
“The insurance.”
The kitchen disappeared.
All I could see was Frank.
His brown cardigan.
His reading glasses.
His hand resting on my shoulder the night before he died.
And Dale.
In my house.
Arguing with him.
“Did Dale hurt him?”
Colleen shook her head quickly.
“I never saw that.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I don’t know.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
She took a shaky breath.
“Dale said Frank accused him of going through financial papers.”
I remembered Frank becoming strange near the end.
Closing drawers when Dale entered.
Moving papers from the desk.
Once, he asked me where my Social Security card was.
I laughed and told him in the metal box.
He told me to move it.
I thought he was being overly cautious.
Now the memory felt like a warning I had ignored.
Colleen continued.
“Dale said Frank threatened to tell Paula.”
Paula whispered, “Tell me what?”
“Something about debt.”
She looked toward me.
“Large debt.”
I frowned.
“Dale’s?”
“Yes.”
“How large?”
“I never knew.”
Paula slowly sat down.
“I knew about the credit cards.”
Colleen looked at her.
“Not those.”
Paula’s eyes lifted.
“What do you mean?”
“There was more.”
Then I remembered something from the attorney.
Financial records.
Frank had discovered something in Dale’s financial records.
I reached for Frank’s letter.
“Samuel said Frank found something.”
Colleen nodded.
“I think it was connected.”
“To what?”
She swallowed.
“A company.”
“What company?”
“Harbor Ridge Consulting.”
Paula stared at her.
“I have never heard of that.”
“Neither had Frank.”
I looked at Colleen.
“How did you know about it?”
“Dale asked me to notarize something once.”
“What?”
“A loan agreement.”
Paula’s face changed.
“You’re a notary.”
Colleen nodded miserably.
Of course she was.
I had forgotten.
She had worked at a real estate office for twenty-two years.
Suddenly, the power-of-attorney papers made even more sense.
“You notarized documents for Dale?”
“A few.”
“Legal documents?”
“Yes.”
“Did you read them?”
“Not all.”
I laughed once.
A hard little sound.
“You may want to start.”
Paula walked toward the counter and picked up her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Dale.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“Mom—”
“No.”
“He needs to answer me.”
“He has spent four years answering you with lies. Tonight we stop asking him for the truth.”
She stared at me.
“Then what do we do?”
“We go to Samuel.”
Her eyes moved to the clock.
“It is Sunday.”
“Tomorrow.”
Colleen abruptly shook her head.
“You can’t.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“You can’t wait.”
My chest tightened again.
“Why?”
“Because Dale knows now.”
“Knows what?”
“That you spoke to Samuel.”
I looked at the phone.
“He doesn’t.”
“Yes, he does.”
“How?”
Colleen pointed toward Paula’s phone.
“If he sent that message after leaving, he knew you would start asking questions. He knows what Frank left behind.”
I turned toward her slowly.
“How would Dale know there is a package?”
Colleen said nothing.
“Colleen.”
She whispered, “Because he tried to get it.”
That stopped all of us.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“He went to Samuel?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“He sent me.”
Paula stared at her aunt.
“You did what?”
Colleen cried again.
“I was scared.”
“Stop saying you were scared.”
Paula’s voice cracked.
“You helped my husband steal from my mother.”
“I know.”
“You signed things.”
“I know.”
“You helped him pretend Grandma was incompetent.”
“I didn’t know he told the lawyer that.”
“But you went after Dad’s package.”
Colleen covered her mouth.
Paula stepped closer.
“Why?”
“Because Dale said it contained proof that Frank had been confused before he died.”
I almost laughed.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“Confused.”
My daughter looked at me.
“It is always the same word.”
Old.
Confused.
Forgetful.
Incompetent.
A story Dale had been writing about everyone who stood between him and money.
I turned to Colleen.
“What happened when you went to Samuel?”
“He refused to give me anything.”
“Good.”
“He asked for identification. He asked for your authorization. I had neither.”
“And then?”
“I told Dale.”
“What did he say?”
“He became furious.”
Paula whispered, “Was that when he started talking about Mom moving in with us?”
Colleen looked at her.
“Yes.”
That was the moment I understood.
The house.
The down payment.
The converted den.
All of it.
Maybe not from the beginning.
But somewhere along the way, my son-in-law had realized that keeping me close made me easier to control.
My mail came here.
My banking statements came here.
My doctor called here.
My Social Security correspondence came here.
My whole life had slowly been rerouted through a house where Dale could reach everything before I did.
I looked toward the flour canister on top of the refrigerator.
Thirty-one dollars.
That little monitor had not exposed a rude son-in-law.
It had exposed a system.
“Paula.”
“Yes?”
“Where does the mail come?”
“What?”
“Our mail.”
“The box outside.”
“Who gets it?”
She looked toward the back door.
“Usually Dale.”
I stood so fast my chair almost fell.
“Mom?”
“I need my purse.”
“Why?”
“My bank.”
“Tonight?”
“No. Statements.”
I walked toward my room.
Paula followed.
I opened the bottom drawer of my dresser and pulled out a blue folder.
Empty.
I stared at it.
Paula leaned over my shoulder.
“What was supposed to be there?”
“Bank statements.”
Her face went pale.
“All of them?”
“I keep twelve months.”
The folder was empty.
I opened the next drawer.
Tax papers.
Medical bills.
A copy of Frank’s death certificate.
The death certificate was gone.
I sat on the bed.
Paula whispered, “Mom?”
“My Social Security card.”
We opened the metal box.
Gone.
My passport.
Gone.
The deed from Ridgeway.
Gone.
Paula started crying.
Not quietly this time.
“Oh my God.”
“Call your bank.”
I looked at her.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
I picked up my phone.
The automated line asked for my account number.
I did not know it by heart.
I had always used the paper statements.
Paula logged into my online account from my tablet.
Or tried.
The password had been changed.
My mouth went dry.
“Try forgot password.”
She did.
The recovery email appeared partially hidden.
It was not mine.
The last four letters were familiar.
Dale’s email.
Paula stared at the screen.
“No.”
I felt a strange calm settle over me.
Sometimes fear ends when the thing you feared finally shows its face.
“Your husband has access to my bank account.”
She shook her head.
“He wouldn’t.”
I looked at her.
Then she corrected herself.
“I don’t want him to.”
That was different.
And it mattered.
She called the emergency fraud number.
The bank representative asked identity questions.
Birth date.
Previous address.
Approximate balance.
Last deposit.
Then the woman asked me something that made my blood run cold.
“Mrs. Bell, do you recognize a transfer made last month for forty-eight thousand dollars?”
“No.”
Paula clutched my arm.
The representative continued.
“A transfer to Harbor Ridge Consulting.”
The same company.
I looked at Colleen, who had followed us into the room.
She covered her mouth.
“No.”
“How many transfers?” I asked.
The woman paused.
“Ma’am, I’m going to place a temporary hold on the account while our fraud team reviews this.”
“How many?”
Another pause.
“Seven in the past eighteen months.”
I closed my eyes.
“How much total?”
“One hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars.”
Paula sat down on the floor.
Colleen leaned against the wall.
I stayed standing.
“Was every transfer to Harbor Ridge?”
“Most.”
“Most?”
“Two went to another account.”
“What account?”
“I can’t provide full information before verification, but the account name begins with the initials D.M.”
Paula whispered, “Dale Mercer.”
I looked at her.
She nodded.
“That is his full name.”
The bank representative told me the accounts would be frozen pending investigation.
She gave me a case number.
I wrote it on the back of an envelope with hands that no longer shook.
Then she asked me one final question.
“Mrs. Bell, did you authorize anyone with power of attorney over this account?”
“No.”
“Did you authorize anyone as a joint owner?”
“No.”
“Did you authorize online access to a third party?”
“No.”
Silence.
Then her tone changed.
“Ma’am, I strongly recommend contacting law enforcement.”
The words sat heavily in the room.
Law enforcement.
Not family argument.
Not misunderstanding.
Not an ungrateful son-in-law.
Fraud.
I thanked her.
Then I ended the call.
Paula was still on the floor.
I sat beside her.
For a moment, she was six again.
Her father had bought her a red bicycle.
She fell on the first ride and scraped both knees.
She crawled into my lap and cried until she hiccupped.
Now she leaned into me the same way.
“I’m sorry.”
I held her.
“What for?”
“For not seeing him.”
I smoothed her hair.
“You loved your husband.”
“I defended him.”
“Yes.”
“I let him call you a burden.”
“Yes.”
She sobbed harder.
“I let him take your money.”
I looked at her.
“You didn’t take it.”
“I looked away.”
That was the truth.
And I loved her enough not to soften it.
“Yes,” I said.
“You did.”
She cried against my shoulder.
After a while, I said, “Now look.”
She lifted her head.
“That is all I need.”
Colleen was still standing by the door.
“What about me?”
I looked at her.
“What about you?”
“Are you going to forgive me?”
“No.”
She flinched.
“Not tonight.”
I stood.
“Maybe not ever.”
She nodded slowly.
“But you are going to help.”
“With what?”
“Everything.”
She straightened.
“You are going to tell the police what you know. You are going to bring every document you notarized for Dale. Every email. Every text.”
Her face went pale.
“And if that implicates me?”
“It probably will.”
“Marguerite—”
“You wanted forgiveness.”
She looked down.
“Start with the truth.”
Her phone rang.
All three of us looked at it.
Dale.
Colleen did not answer.
It stopped.
Then rang again.
Dale.
Stopped.
Again.
Paula picked up Colleen’s phone.
“Let me.”
“No.”
I took it.
Then I answered.
“Hello, Dale.”
Silence.
Then his voice.
“Where is Paula?”
“Here.”
“Put her on.”
“No.”
“This has nothing to do with you.”
I almost smiled.
“I think the one hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars says otherwise.”
The silence on the other end changed.
Not confusion.
Calculation.
“So you called the bank.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t understand what those transfers were.”
“Then explain them.”
“Investments.”
“I never approved investments.”
“Frank did.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
He was going to use my dead husband.
“Frank has been dead four years.”
“They began before he died.”
“Interesting.”
“They did.”
“Then why did the bank say the online access was created after his death?”
He said nothing.
I had guessed.
But he did not know that.
Paula stared at me.
Colleen’s mouth opened.
I continued.
“Dale?”
His breathing changed.
“You’re making a mistake.”
“I made the mistake four years ago.”
“Marguerite—”
“Giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
He lowered his voice.
“You need to think carefully about what you’re doing.”
“I am.”
“Paula could lose everything.”
My daughter stiffened.
“What does that mean?”
He heard her.
“Paula?”
She took the phone from my hand.
“What does that mean?”
“Come meet me.”
“No.”
“Alone.”
“No.”
“I can explain.”
“Explain now.”
“Not over the phone.”
Paula looked at me.
I shook my head.
She said, “Then I’m not coming.”
Dale was silent.
Then he said something I did not expect.
“Your mother has not told you everything about Frank.”
My daughter’s face tightened.
“What do you mean?”
“Ask her why there was no autopsy.”
I felt my stomach drop.
I took the phone.
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, now you’re listening.”
“There was no autopsy because the doctor said heart attack.”
“That’s what you wanted everybody to believe.”
“Dale.”
“You found him, Marguerite.”
“Yes.”
“You were alone with him.”
“No. You were there.”
Long pause.
Behind me, Colleen whispered, “Don’t.”
Dale laughed softly.
“So she finally told you.”
“You left him there.”
“You don’t know what happened.”
“Then tell me.”
“I will.”
I waited.
“Tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“The Ridgeway house.”
My heart jolted.
“That house belongs to another family.”
“Not anymore.”
“What?”
“I bought it.”
I gripped the phone.
Paula whispered, “What did he say?”
“When?”
I asked.
“Six months ago.”
“With whose money?”
He did not answer.
I already knew.
Mine.
I closed my eyes.
The yellow house.
The green shutters.
The porch where Frank used to sit on summer evenings.
The kitchen where Paula learned to bake.
The bedroom where my husband died.
Dale had bought it.
With money stolen from me.
“Why?”
I whispered.
His answer came quiet and clear.
“Because Frank hid something there.”
My skin went cold.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“He told Samuel where to find it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I heard him.”
I stopped breathing.
“When?”
“The day he died.”
Nobody in the room moved.
Dale continued.
“Frank called Samuel while I was standing in the hallway.”
I whispered, “You said you weren’t there.”
“I lied.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened after the call?”
“Come tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Then you will never know.”
“Police will know.”
He laughed.
“You think the police are going to believe a seventy-six-year-old woman with a baby monitor?”
“They might believe the bank.”
Silence.
“They might believe Colleen.”
More silence.
“They might believe Frank’s letter.”
His voice became cold.
“You opened it.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know Frank was afraid.”
“Of you.”
“No.”
“Then of what?”
Dale did not answer.
“Dale.”
Finally, he said, “Frank was afraid of what you would remember.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Paula touched my arm.
“What did he mean?”
“I don’t know.”
But part of me did.
There was something about the day Frank died I had never told anyone.
Something I had convinced myself was grief.
A tiny memory.
A sound.
I had come home from the pharmacy at 2:17.
I knew because the receipt was still in my purse for years.
When I entered the house, the front door was unlocked.
Frank was upstairs.
I found him on the bedroom floor.
But before I climbed the stairs, I heard something.
The back door closing.
At the time, I thought the wind had caught it.
Then while I knelt beside Frank, I noticed something else.
His right hand was clenched.
After the paramedics left, I found a torn piece of paper beneath the dresser.
I had never understood it.
I had kept it for months.
Then after selling Ridgeway, it disappeared.
I looked at Paula.
“Your father had something in his hand when I found him.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you tell police?”
“There were no police.”
“Then who?”
“Nobody.”
Colleen stepped closer.
“What did the paper say?”
I tried to remember.
Four years.
Grief.
Packing.
Moving.
I had read the torn scrap maybe twenty times.
There had been numbers.
A name.
And three words.
I pressed my fingers to my temple.
Then suddenly they came back.
“Account.
Beneficiary.
Mercer.”
Paula’s face went white.
Dale’s last name.
Colleen’s too.
Because Colleen was Frank’s sister.
Colleen Mercer.
And Dale Mercer.
Not related.
Just the same surname.
At least I had always thought it was coincidence.
I turned toward Colleen.
She was staring at me.
“What?”
I asked.
She did not answer.
“Colleen.”
She backed away.
“What is it?”
She whispered, “Dale’s last name wasn’t Mercer when Paula met him.”
Paula stared at her.
“Yes, it was.”
“No.”
“What are you talking about?”
Colleen looked sick.
“He changed it.”
“When?”
“Before the wedding.”
“To Mercer?”
“Yes.”
Paula’s voice cracked.
“Why?”
Colleen looked directly at me.
“Because that was his mother’s maiden name.”
I frowned.
“So?”
Her next words nearly stopped my heart.
“His mother’s name was Elaine Mercer.”
I knew that name.
I had not heard it in forty-three years.
Elaine Mercer.
The secretary from Frank’s first job.
The woman who used to call our house before Paula was born.
The woman Frank swore meant nothing.
The woman who disappeared from our lives after I threatened to leave him.
I grabbed the table.
“No.”
Colleen started crying again.
“Marguerite, I am so sorry.”
“No.”
“Frank told me years ago.”
“No.”
Paula looked between us.
“What are you saying?”
Colleen whispered, “Elaine had a son.”
The room went silent.
I stared at her.
“How old?”
She did not answer.
I screamed.
“How old?”
“Fifty-two.”
Dale was fifty-two.
Paula stepped backward.
“No.”
I could barely speak.
“Who was the father?”
Colleen looked at me.
And I already knew.
“Frank.”
Paula made a choking sound.
I closed my eyes.
My daughter had married a man whose mother had once had an affair with her father.
But there was worse.
Much worse.
Paula whispered, “Are you saying Dale is Dad’s son?”
Colleen shook her head quickly.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Frank never knew for certain.”
My daughter sank into the chair.
I could not move.
Dale.
Frank’s son.
Possibly.
Which meant Paula—
No.
My mind refused to finish the thought.
Colleen grabbed my hands.
“Frank had a DNA test done.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“Before he died.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Then I remembered what Dale had said.
Frank hid something in the Ridgeway house.
I looked toward the clock.
Paula read my face.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Mom, he told us to go there. It could be a trap.”
“I am not going tonight.”
“Good.”
“I am calling Samuel.”
I dialed the attorney again.
No answer.
I tried twice.
Then a third time.
Voicemail.
My stomach tightened.
Paula whispered, “Maybe he went home.”
I looked at the clock.
8:46.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Mrs. Bell?”
It was Samuel.
But his voice sounded strange.
Breathless.
“Mr. Greer?”
“Do not come to my office tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“I went there tonight to retrieve your husband’s package.”
My pulse quickened.
“Why tonight?”
“Because after your call, I no longer felt comfortable leaving it there.”
“Where are you?”
He ignored the question.
“Mrs. Bell, someone broke into my office.”
Paula moved closer.
“Was the package taken?”
“No.”
I exhaled.
“Where is it?”
Samuel whispered, “With me.”
“Then bring it here.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
“Because the package contains something I did not know was inside.”
“What?”
“I opened the outer envelope.”
“You said Frank instructed you not to.”
“He gave permission if your safety was threatened.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What did you find?”
“Three things.”
He took a breath.
“Bank records.”
I closed my eyes.
“A DNA report.”
Paula gripped the table.
“And the third?”
Samuel’s voice dropped.
“A photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“Frank and Elaine Mercer.”
That alone would not have mattered.
Not after everything else.
But Samuel continued.
“There is a date written on the back.”
“What date?”
“The day Dale was born.”
Nobody spoke.
Then Samuel said, “And there is another name on the photograph.”
I whispered, “Whose?”
Samuel hesitated.
“Colleen’s.”
I turned slowly.
Colleen had gone completely white.
Samuel continued.
“Mrs. Bell, I think your sister-in-law knows more about Dale’s birth than she has told you.”
I stared at Colleen.
She shook her head.
“No.”
I held the phone away from my ear.
“What did you do?”
“Marguerite—”
“What did you do?”
Her knees buckled and she grabbed the counter.
“I was seventeen.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
She sobbed.
“I helped Elaine.”
“With what?”
She looked directly at Paula.
“With the baby.”
My daughter covered her mouth.
I whispered, “What baby?”
Colleen’s face collapsed.
“Dale.”
Then Samuel shouted something on the phone.
A loud crash followed.
The line went dead.
“Samuel?”
Nothing.
“Samuel!”
I called back.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Paula grabbed her coat.
“We are calling the police.”
This time I did not argue.
Colleen stared toward the window.
Then her face changed.
“Marguerite.”
“What?”
She pointed outside.
Headlights had turned into the driveway.
A car stopped.
Not Dale’s.
A dark sedan.
A man stepped out.
He held something under his jacket.
Paula backed away from the window.
“Do you know him?”
I shook my head.
Then the man walked to the front door.
Three slow knocks.
Nobody moved.
Three more.
I picked up my phone to call 911.
Then a voice came through the door.
“Mrs. Bell?”
I froze.
“My name is Detective Alan Reeves.”
Paula looked at me.
The man continued.
“I need to speak with you about Samuel Greer.”
My stomach dropped.
I opened the door only after he showed his badge through the glass.
The detective stepped inside.
His expression told me the news before his mouth did.
“Mrs. Bell, Samuel Greer was attacked outside his office approximately twenty minutes ago.”
I covered my mouth.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“He is being taken to the hospital.”
“Who attacked him?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did they take Frank’s package?”
The detective stared at me.
“How do you know about the package?”
I explained quickly.
His expression hardened.
“Samuel did not have the package when officers found him.”
Paula whispered, “Then whoever attacked him has it.”
“Possibly.”
My heart sank.
Everything Frank had protected for four years.
Gone.
Then Detective Reeves reached into his coat.
“But Mr. Greer had this.”
He handed me a small brass key.
A paper tag was tied to it.
On the tag was one word.
RIDGEWAY.
I stared at the key.
The house.
Frank’s house.
My house.
Dale’s house now.
The detective looked at all three of us.
“Mrs. Bell, do you know what this opens?”
I closed my fingers around the key.
“No.”
But Colleen did.
I saw it in her face.
The detective saw it too.
“Ma’am?”
Colleen whispered, “The basement wall.”
Paula frowned.
“What basement wall?”
Colleen looked at me.
“The one Frank built after Elaine disappeared.”
My blood turned cold.
“Why would he build a wall?”
Colleen began crying again.
“Because Elaine left something behind.”
“What?”
She stared at the brass key in my hand.
Then she said the one thing that made all the money, lies, forged paperwork and stolen documents suddenly feel small.
“A birth certificate.”
One Comment on “PART 3: I hid a baby monitor in my daughter’s kitchen three weeks ago and I have listened to my son in law every night since. I thought the worst thing I would hear was what he calls me when I am not in the room. Then on Thursday a second woman spoke.”