Chapter 3 - THE GROOM THEY BLAMED
“Thomas Bell tried to save my sister?”
Vincent DeMarco looked at Lydia Hart as though she'd lost her mind.
For eight years, Thomas Bell had been the man the DeMarco family blamed for Isabella's disappearance.
He was thirty-one when he'd proposed to her.
A handsome Philadelphia investment adviser who had worked with several wealthy families.
According to the original police report, Isabella and Thomas had argued shortly before their wedding reception ended.
Thomas claimed she walked away.
He had supposedly spent the rest of the night searching for her.
But no one believed him.
Not after his car was discovered abandoned near the river the following morning.
And certainly not after he vanished from Philadelphia six months later.
Vincent gripped the edge of the table.
“Thomas told me he never saw Isabella after eleven that night.”
Lydia nodded.
“Because someone told him that admitting the truth would put her in danger.”
“Who?”
Lydia glanced toward Arthur.
Arthur remained silent.
Victoria suddenly stepped closer.
“Dad, say something.”
Her father looked at her.
“Victoria, this is not your concern.”
She stared at him.
“I'm standing in my fiancé's house while you're being accused of kidnapping his sister. Of course it's my concern.”
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for her.
Then she noticed me watching.
Her expression hardened.
“Claire, get some water for Mrs. DeMarco.”
Vincent turned.
“Claire isn't taking orders from you tonight.”
The words were simple.
But Victoria looked as though he'd slapped her.
I stepped toward Eleanor's wheelchair anyway.
She was pale.
Her breathing had become shallow.
“Would you like some water, Mrs. DeMarco?”
She nodded.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
I brought her a glass from the sideboard.
As I helped her drink, I noticed the photograph still resting in her lap.
It wasn't the hotel photograph.
It showed Vincent's father, Richard DeMarco, standing beside a dark green automobile.
A younger Vincent stood beside him.
And near the edge of the photograph was a man wearing a black overcoat.
His face had been partially cut off.
I didn't recognize him.
But something about the coat bothered me.
“Mrs. DeMarco,” I whispered, “who is this man?”
Eleanor looked down.
Her fingers tightened around the photograph.
“Someone I should have stopped trusting a long time ago.”
Before I could ask another question, Vincent spoke.
“Lydia. Start with Thomas.”
She took a breath.
“On Isabella's wedding night, Thomas discovered that two men had entered a private service corridor behind the ballroom.”
“How?”
“He was looking for Isabella.”
“Why?”
“Because she had sent him a note asking him to meet her before they left for their honeymoon.”
Margaret covered her mouth.
“I remember that note.”
Everyone turned toward her.
“She asked me for blue thread that afternoon. Said she wanted to repair something on her dress.”
Margaret looked toward the gown.
“I thought she meant a loose seam.”
Lydia nodded.
“Thomas found her in the service corridor. She was frightened. They argued because he wanted to call you immediately.”
Vincent frowned.
“Why didn't he?”
“Because Isabella believed someone close to your family was involved in your father's murder.”
Vincent's expression darkened.
“Who?”
“She hadn't proved it yet.”
Lydia continued.
“One of the men grabbed Isabella. Thomas tried to stop him. There was a struggle. Thomas injured his shoulder against a broken glass panel.”
I looked toward the stain.
Blood had soaked through the lining near the waist.
Isabella must have been pressed against him.
“Was he badly hurt?” I asked.
“Badly enough to need stitches.”
Vincent looked at Arthur.
“And your father was at the hotel three days later?”
Victoria answered before Arthur could.
“My father owned part of that hotel.”
Everyone turned.
Her face drained of color.
“I mean… he had investments there.”
Vincent stared at her.
“You knew which hotel it was?”
Victoria swallowed.
“I recognized the entrance in the photograph.”
“Before we showed you the photograph?”
She couldn't answer.
Arthur intervened.
“Victoria was barely twenty-six when these events occurred. Stop interrogating her.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“You're right.”
Arthur seemed relieved.
Then Vincent added, “I'll interrogate you instead.”
He placed the brass token on the table.
“Why does this have my father's initials?”
Arthur looked away.
“Richard and I did business together.”
“According to you, only briefly.”
“People remember things differently after eleven years.”
Vincent reached into his jacket.
He removed an old silver wristwatch.
The leather strap was cracked.
The crystal had a small scratch near the six.
“My father gave me this the morning he died.”
Eleanor began trembling.
Vincent continued.
“He told me that if anything happened to him, I was to remember one thing.”
“What thing?” Lydia asked.
Vincent looked directly at Arthur.
“Never confuse the man who signs the papers with the man who gives the orders.”
Arthur's expression changed.
It lasted only a second.
But I saw it.
So did Vincent.
Owen stepped forward.
“Boss, maybe we should examine the storage token.”
Vincent nodded.
“Arrange it.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
Arthur laughed bitterly.
“You think something has been sitting in a railway locker for eleven years?”
Lydia shook her head.
“Not exactly.”
She explained that Philadelphia Central Station once operated a private storage service for long-term commercial customers.
The original numbered lockers had been removed.
But some deposited property had been transferred to a secured storage facility.
Isabella had believed the token could identify a sealed consignment.
“Why didn't she retrieve it?” Vincent demanded.
“Because the account required two identifying items.”
“What was the second?”
Lydia looked at the watch.
Eleanor made a strangled sound.
Vincent slowly lowered his eyes.
“The watch?”
Lydia nodded.
“Your sister knew you had it.”
Arthur suddenly turned toward the door.
Owen blocked him again.
“Sit down, Mr. Ashford.”
Arthur's face reddened.
“You have no authority to hold me here.”
Vincent took a slow breath.
“Then remain as my guest while I call an attorney and arrange for the authorities to examine whatever we find. Nobody is going to be harmed tonight.”
The distinction seemed to surprise everyone.
Especially Victoria.
She studied Vincent as though she'd expected something worse.
Then Margaret approached the gown again.
“Mr. DeMarco, there's still a section of stitching we haven't examined.”
Vincent nodded.
“Show me.”
She lifted the lace near the left shoulder.
There were tiny blue stitches forming an almost invisible pattern.
Three short lines.
One long line.
Then a small circle.
Margaret's eyes widened.
“Good Lord.”
“What?”
She looked at Vincent's watch.
“Your sister was copying something.”
Margaret pointed toward the scratched crystal.
The marks matched the stitching.
Three short scratches.
One long scratch.
And a small circle.
Vincent stared.
“I thought those were accidental.”
Margaret shook her head.
“No. Isabella made that pattern deliberately.”
I looked from the watch to the gown.
“Maybe it's not a code,” I suggested. “Maybe it's a way to identify the watch.”
Vincent turned the silver case over.
A small engraved plate covered the back.
For eleven years, he'd worn it without opening it.
Owen brought a precision screwdriver from his security kit.
Vincent removed the plate.
Inside was a tiny folded piece of paper.
The room fell silent.
He unfolded it carefully.
Only one sentence had been written there.
THE MAN IN THE BLACK COAT WAS NEVER MY ENEMY.
Vincent stared at the words.
“That's my father's handwriting.”
Eleanor suddenly began crying.
Vincent turned toward her.
“Mom?”
She held up the photograph from her lap.
The one showing Richard beside his car.
Her voice trembled.
“Your father wrote that because he'd discovered the truth about his oldest friend.”
Vincent looked at the half-hidden man in the black coat.
Then his face hardened.
“That's Salvatore Russo.”
Owen went pale.
Salvatore Russo.
Vincent's most trusted business adviser.
A man who had helped raise him after Richard's murder.
A man who had attended every DeMarco family wedding, funeral, and birthday for thirty years.
And a man who was still sitting downstairs at the engagement banquet.
Vincent looked at his mother.
“You're telling me Salvatore killed Dad?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“No, sweetheart.”
May you like
She pointed to the photograph.
“I'm telling you that your father trusted Salvatore with his life. And the night Richard was murdered, Salvatore wasn't the man who betrayed him.”
