Page 37 of In Her Memory

“There is, actually. You can explain why you felt the need to have Mayor Simmons authorize a private investigator before we’ve even determined if Mrs. Marsh’s death was suspicious.”

Boyd had stammered something about standard procedure, about protecting everyone’s interests, but Sheriff Graves hadn’t seemed impressed.

“There’s something else you should know,” she’d continued. “Those anonymous letters to the Trentville Weekly News? The ones signed by a ‘concerned citizen’ criticizing the Calloway House project? We’ve identified the author.”

When he’d made no comment, she’d continued.

“It’s your superintendent, Mr. Greer. He’s been writing them.”

The revelation had hit Boyd hard. Nolan Greer — the man he’d trusted with the day-to-day management of his prized project, the man who had access to every inch of the building, every system, every room. The man who had found Donna Marsh’s body.

Now, as his car ate up the final miles to Trentville, Boyd felt anger bubbling up again. He’d hired Greer based on his local knowledge, his experience with old buildings. Never once had it occurred to him that the man might have an agenda, might actually be working to undermine the entire project.

It all made sense now — the persistent maintenance issues that never seemed to get fully resolved, the rumors of strange noises that spooked the residents, the small but accumulating problems that had plagued the renovation from the start. All of it could be traced back to Greer, methodically sabotaging the building from within.

A stabbing pain lanced through Boyd’s chest. He eased up on the gas, taking a deep breath. His cardiologist’s stern face flashed in his mind.

“Even your normal day-to-day business is too stressful,” Dr. Wexler had warned after his heart attack two years ago. “You need to consider retirement, Boyd. Your next attack could be your last.”

His 23-year-old girlfriend, Cindy Ruhl, more than agreed about retirement. Of course, as he knew perfectly well, Cindy considered him an investment, just as he considered her a trophy. And she wanted him to live at least long enough to marry her—an event that he kept putting off, much to her frustration.

But retirement meant surrender. It meant walking away from Calloway House before he’d fully reclaimed his family’s legacy. Before he’d erased the stain of what Pete Shannon had done to Amos Calloway all those decades ago.

Boyd pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid flutter of his heart beneath his palm. Just a few more miles. He just needed to make it to Trentville, confront Greer, and salvage what he could of this situation. Then he could rest. Then he could consider slowing down.

The exit sign for Trentville appeared in his headlights. Boyd Calloway took the turn, his mind set with determination. He hadn’t come this far, hadn’t invested so much, only to have it all undermined by a vindictive handyman with a grudge. Calloway House would survive this, just as he had survived his heart attack.

It had to. His legacy depended on it.

Boyd swung his sedan into the curved driveway of Calloway House, the mansion’s silhouette looming against the night sky. Restored gas lamps cast pools of amber light across the manicured grounds, illuminating the limestone facade and ornate woodwork that had cost him a fortune to restore.

The building stood proud and elegant, every inch the legacy he had envisioned. Yet as Boyd cut the engine and sat in sudden silence, he felt none of the usual satisfaction. Instead, a cold fury settled in his gut.

He pushed open the car door and stepped into the cool October night. The grand entrance with its polished brass fixtures and restored oak door beckoned, but Boyd barely registered the details he normally took pride in. His footsteps echoed on the stone path as he marched toward the entrance, each step fueled by the anger that had built during his drive from Kansas City.

The foyer greeted him with soft lighting and renewed elegance. A far cry from the musty, decaying shell he’d purchased three years ago. The building had been a challenge from the start — water damage, outdated wiring, structural issues that had eaten through his budget faster than anticipated. But he’d persevered, driven by the symbolism of a Calloway reclaiming what a Shannon had stolen.

And all along, Nolan Greer had been working against him.

Boyd strode through the main hall toward the east wing where the staff quarters were located. Nolan had been given a comfortable apartment on the ground floor — close to the boiler room and maintenance areas for convenience, Boyd had thought at the time. Now he wondered how many “maintenance issues” had been manufactured right there in that apartment.

He reached Nolan’s door and didn’t bother knocking. The brass doorknob turned easily in his hand, and Boyd pushed the door open with enough force to send it banging against the wall.

“Greer! We need to— “

Boyd stopped mid-sentence, the words dying in his throat. Nolan Greer stood in the center of the room with a packed duffel bag at his feet. The apartment was nearly bare, personal items cleared from shelves and surfaces.

The superintendent wore his usual work clothes — khaki pants and a blue flannel shirt — but his perpetually tired eyes were alert now, watching Boyd with grim satisfaction.

“Mr. Calloway,” Nolan said, his voice flat. “I figured you’d be stopping by.”

Boyd stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. “Going somewhere?”

“I think we both know my employment here is finished.” Nolan turned away, zipping up the duffel bag. “Sheriff Graves found out I was behind those letters to the newspaper. As soon as she told me, I knew right away she’d tell you about them.”

“The letters are the least of it,” Boyd said, struggling to keep his voice level. “Maintenance issues that never get fixed? Equipment that mysteriously breaks down? Were you behind all of that too?”

Nolan stiffened, but he didn’t turn around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”