Chapter 4 - The Woman in the Green BeretI spent that night at Rachel's apartment.
She lived in a small second-floor unit above a bakery, close enough to the hospital that she could walk to work. The apartment smelled faintly of vanilla and detergent, and every room was filled with the ordinary clutter of someone whose life belonged entirely to herself.
I envied her more than I wanted to admit.
Around midnight, I called Julian and told him I was staying with my sister because I needed space.
He was silent for several seconds.
"Space from what?"
"From everything."
"Is this because of the money?"
"Partly."
"Or is it because of that woman?"
My heart stopped.
"What woman?"
"The woman you supposedly met on the bus."
I had never told him about the woman.
Not once.
I sat upright in Rachel's guest bed.
"How do you know about her?"
He exhaled sharply.
"Morgan, you aren't as careful as you think. You left your notebook open this morning. I saw the description."
I remembered writing down the woman's appearance after the police left, hoping some detail might help identify her.
I had left the notebook on the kitchen counter.
"Why are you interested in her?" I asked.
"Because strangers don't tell people to soak jewelry in water unless they know something."
His answer was too precise.
I gripped the blanket.
"What do you know about her?"
"Nothing."
"Then why did you ask?"
"Morgan, please. Come home tomorrow. We'll talk about all of this."
"No."
His voice hardened.
"You're making a mistake."
"Maybe."
"If you keep involving the police, you'll destroy everything I've worked for."
"Is that a threat?"
He went quiet.
Then he said, "It's a warning."
I ended the call.
Rachel woke when she heard me moving around the room.
"What happened?"
"He knows about the woman."
Rachel sat down beside me.
"How?"
"He saw my notebook. That's what he says."
"Do you believe him?"
"I don't know."
She handed me a glass of water.
"Then let's find her."
The next morning, I visited the bus stop where I had first seen the elderly woman.
I asked a newspaper vendor, a café employee, and a man who sold flowers from a cart. None recognized the description.
Then I remembered the lavender scent.
It had been unusually distinctive, warm and slightly sweet, like the sachets my grandmother used to keep in her linen drawers.
Grandma Clara had lived in Door County for most of her life, but before that, she'd spent several years in Chicago. I had old photographs of her with friends from those days, including one in which she wore a gray coat and a green hat.
The woman on the bus had looked familiar.
I had dismissed the feeling because the woman's features were older and sharper than my grandmother's.
But now I wondered whether the resemblance had been more than a coincidence.
I called the cottage's caretaker, a retired neighbor named Mrs. Dwyer, who still checked the house every few weeks.
"Did Grandma Clara have a friend who wore a green beret?" I asked.
Mrs. Dwyer laughed softly.
"Your grandmother had friends who wore everything. Why are you asking?"
I described the woman.
There was a pause.
"Do you remember Margaret Vale?"
The name stirred something in the back of my mind.
"Not really."
"She and your grandmother were close when they were young. Margaret worked in a hospital, then later helped run a jewelry repair shop with her husband. They had a falling-out years ago, but I remember your grandmother still receiving postcards from her."
"Where does she live?"
"I couldn't tell you. I haven't seen her in years."
Mrs. Dwyer promised to look for old letters and photographs.
When I ended the call, I felt the first real thread of hope since the necklace had arrived.
Margaret Vale.
The name was a beginning.
By afternoon, I had located a retired jewelry repair business under that name. Its owner had died years earlier, but an old directory listed a residential address in Evanston.
Rachel accompanied me.
We drove through a quiet neighborhood of brick houses and leafy streets until we reached a narrow home with a green front door. There were flowerpots on the steps and a small brass bell beside the frame.
I rang it.
No one answered.
I rang again.
From somewhere inside, a voice called, "Who is it?"
"My name is Morgan. I'm looking for Margaret Vale."
The door opened a few inches.
A woman's face appeared in the gap.
She had white hair tucked beneath a green beret and pale blue eyes that seemed to examine every detail of me before she spoke.
"Who sent you?"
"Nobody. I think you spoke to me on a bus last week."
Her expression changed.
She opened the door fully.
"Come inside."
The house was tidy, filled with old photographs, books, and the faint smell of lavender. A heavy wooden jewelry box sat on a table by the window.
Margaret looked at me for a long moment.
"You didn't wear it."
"No."
"Did you put it in water?"
I nodded.
She closed her eyes.
"Thank God."
The relief in her voice was so profound that I began to tremble.
"Please tell me what's happening," I said. "Who are you? How did you know my husband would give me that necklace?"
Margaret motioned us toward the sitting room.
"I didn't know your husband personally until recently. I knew the person who arranged the necklace, and I knew what he had done before."
"Victor Sloane."
She gave a slow nod.
"Victor used to be a client of my husband's. He commissioned custom pieces through us when he wanted to conceal small objects. Most were harmless. Memory cards, miniature keepsakes, things wealthy people liked to call private."
"What about the necklace?"
Margaret folded her hands.
"Two years ago, my granddaughter Claire wore one of those pendants to a private dinner. She became violently ill that evening. The doctors couldn't initially determine why. She recovered, but afterward she told me that she had been receiving threatening messages from her father."
"Victor?"
"Yes."
Margaret's gaze moved to the window.
"Claire believed her father wanted control of an inheritance her mother had left her. She had begun transferring documents and money into accounts Victor couldn't access. Then the necklace appeared."
My pulse quickened.
"Was something hidden inside it?"
"We never found out exactly what caused her illness. The pendant had been damaged, and the laboratory results were inconclusive. Victor insisted it was a manufacturing defect."
"How did you know mine was dangerous?"
"I didn't know for certain. I recognized the design. The perforations were identical."
She stood and walked to the jewelry box.
Inside were old tools, magnifying lenses, photographs, and a yellowed envelope.
She pulled out a photograph of a younger Claire standing beside a man in a dark suit.
The man was Julian.
I recognized him instantly.
He looked thinner, younger, and more confident. His arm rested around Claire's waist.
My voice disappeared.
"Why is my husband in this photograph?"
Margaret looked at me with deep sadness.
"Because before he married you, Julian was engaged to my granddaughter."
The room seemed to tilt.
"That's impossible."
"They were together for almost three years. He worked with Victor on several investment projects. When Claire became ill, Julian told her he couldn't help her. A few months later, he married you."
I stared at the photograph.
My husband had never mentioned a woman named Claire.
Not once in eight years.
"Why would he hide that from me?"
Margaret reached into the envelope and removed a folded letter.
"Because Claire believed he had helped her father. She wrote to me shortly before she disappeared."
She handed me the letter.
The handwriting was hurried and uneven.
Grandma, if anything happens to me, please don't trust Julian. He knows what Father is doing. He helped him prepare the documents. I think they're trying to take the cottage from Morgan before she understands why they want it.
I read the sentence again.
Then I looked up.
"Why would Claire know about my cottage?"
Margaret's face had grown pale.
"Because your grandmother's property isn't just a property, Morgan."
She took another document from the envelope and placed it in front of me.
It was a copy of my grandmother's original deed, with a note attached in her handwriting.
At the bottom, beneath the property description, was a clause I had never seen before.
A clause that referred to a sealed trust established decades earlier.
May you like
I stared at the document.
Then Margaret whispered, "Your grandmother left you something far more valuable than a little house in Wisconsin."
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