Seeds of Malice: A Psychic Vision Novel (Psychic Visions Book 11) Read online

  She had a large piece of property here. It had been her parents’, and, upon their deaths, she’d inherited it. That had been a good twelve years ago, and now it felt like a stranger’s. And it had been a long way from a warm and loving home before then. But, like any kid, she had mixed feelings about her childhood home. She didn’t know if she should keep it or sell it. She wasn’t sure she’d ever stay here again after all she’d been through.

  She’d hoped the animosity against her had died down over the last six months. And, true, she hadn’t had a resurgence of the same nastiness, but few people knew she was back. The abuse would likely start up soon.

  She wandered around the side of the house, then stepped onto the front porch that ran the full length of it to sit in the rocking chair. Slowly, gently she rocked for several long minutes, just letting the stress and pressure inside ease back.

  She needed to get her emotions under control. Get her life back to normal. Did anyone have news on Reggie? For a brief second, she contemplated that maybe he had been the one to murder his partner, then dismissed it instantly. Reggie was the opposite of confrontational. There was nothing aggressive about him. He’d been with Pam for decades.

  Fern’s mind switched to food. She had had coffee for breakfast, then a late lunch/early dinner of a sandwich and more coffee. She needed to eat more food, drink less coffee. She was slender naturally, but this last year had been rough. She had lost some muscle which had kept her from being gaunt. Now underweight, she found it hard to keep any on. Something she never expected to face in her life. She loved food. She’d always been a healthy eater. Like so much of her life, she’d just lost interest.

  When an animal was hurt, it curled up in a ball and didn’t eat. It had taken her several months at the Alnwick Garden before she ate normally again. But, as soon as she’d come back here, she’d fallen into the same pattern of pain. Worry for Reggie ate away at her insides. She racked her mind, thinking where he could be. If his partner was still alive, she’d be the one to ask. Fern briefly considered that. Had somebody killed Pam so she wouldn’t talk? Or so she couldn’t say who’d been there to visit? So many theories and no proof, nothing to even make one supposition more logical than the other.

  As she sipped her coffee, enjoying her moment of silence, a vehicle drove up. It was black, smoky-windowed. An FBI vehicle. But was it Grant? Or London? When London hopped out, her stomach sank. Did he have news? If so, then why not call? Just because they’d had a minor breakthrough did not mean they had a truce. When his partner emerged from the other side and they walked toward her, she could feel all her earlier stress rushing into her bloodstream again.

  She sipped her coffee and watched as they continued up the steps to the long veranda.

  London stopped, studied her and said, “Good afternoon.”

  She inclined her head and waited.

  Steve said, “Pam was killed by a blow to her chest, which caused a heart attack. She had a weak one already. The coroner believes her lips and the inside of her gums were laced with poison after the fact. Most had dissolved into the membranes.”

  Fern froze. Her mind laid out the scenario, and she shook her head. “What poison was used?”

  “We’re waiting for the toxicology results to come back on that. We also should consider somebody added it to throw suspicion on you again.”

  She nodded. “Of course. The police are all too willing to look in my direction,” she said simply. She’d been to the edge of disaster and back. She wasn’t sure these FBI guys could do a whole lot else to her that the police hadn’t already. She tilted her head back and looked at Steve, then London. “Why are you here?”

  “Because we need to know every person in your circle who could have possibly wanted to do this.”

  “If you’re back to looking at who hated me or held a grudge, there’s been a few complaints at the conservatory. A couple people were in trouble and overzealous. But all those letters are on file there. I never received any personally at my home until the case started. And then there was no end to them. I received hundreds.”

  “How many?” London asked in shock. “As part of the investigation, a background check was done on all the conservatory employees but nothing showed up.”

  “Easily one hundred, if not two.” She shrugged. “I took a bunch to the cops just before I left the country—like they cared. I tossed them all into a box and didn’t even open them.”

  “What about the mail since you were gone?”

  “I have a PO box. Honestly, I haven’t been there to check it. There could be hundreds more by now.” She gave a broken laugh. “If you think I have any plans to read them, you’re wrong.”

  “We need to see them.”

  She shook her head. “That’s one nasty well I have no intention of drinking from again.” She could feel the men staring at her, but didn’t care. They hadn’t experienced seeing so much hate directed at her. It had made her feel dirty, but the letters also terrified her.

  “We’ll go through them. You won’t have to at all.”

  “Just knowing that PO box is likely to be stuffed full again …”

  “It has to be done. Somebody is trying to frame you for murder. Don’t you want to fight it?”

  “I fought it last time. Look what happened.”

  “You can’t give up,” London said quietly.

  “I’m not. As far as I’m concerned, I can catch the first plane to England tonight. You guys do whatever the hell you want. You always do.”

  Steve said, “Give us the key, we’ll check out what’s there.”

  She glared at both men. As much as she knew this had to be done, she just didn’t want to deal with it. But what about her other mail? She had no idea what could possibly be there.

  She glanced at her watch. “The post office just closed five minutes ago.”

  London’s phone rang, and he held up one finger. Stepping away from Fern, he took a short call. When he rejoined Steve and Fern, he said, “That was Grant. He got the hate mail from the local cops and is bringing it to headquarters.” London faced Steve. “He expects us to meet him there to go through it all.”

  “Now?” Steve asked.

  “Now,” London said. Turning to Fern, he added, “We’ll stop by in the morning to get you and head to your PO box.” He waited for her to nod, then the two FBI agents left.

  Fern’s phone chimed. Rebecca had sent the employee files as requested. Well, Fern knew what she would be doing tonight.

  *

  The guys were delayed today since Grant had them stay late at headquarters, reading the older hate mail. When they showed up around 10:30 a.m., she was waiting outside once again. London and Steve approached her on the porch.

  She stood and finished her cup of coffee and said, “You drive.”

  Steve immediately nodded. “Grab the mail key and let’s go.”

  She walked inside, put down her coffee cup, grabbed her purse and jacket, checked that she had the keys to the post office and returned outside. She got in the back of the big SUV.

  The location was only a few miles away. They walked into the post office and went to the back where the mailboxes were. Hers was a large one on the bottom. She took a grocery bag from her pocket, put on plastic gloves—also from her pocket—bent down and opened the cover and pulled out the letters. A post office notice was on top. She scooped up the rest of the mail, took her key back, her face expressionless as she held up the notice and said, “They’re holding more for us at the counter.”

  Silently the three walked over, Fern pulling off her gloves, and she handed the card to the woman at the front desk.

  The woman took the card and said, “There you are. We were trying to figure out what to do with all this mail.”

  “I’ll take it now, thanks.”

  The woman returned with a very large USPS canvas bag which she hoisted atop the counter. She nodded. “Glad you came to get this. I’ll need a deposit for the bag.”

  Fern ste
pped back and motioned to London. “I’m not carrying that.”

  He walked over to get it and raised his eyebrows at the size and sheer weight of the bag.

  Fern turned back to the woman at the counter and asked, “Is the mail still coming in at the same rate?”

  The woman shook her head and said, “No, it’s slowed down.”

  “Then we should be good for the next six months.” She paid the deposit, then turned and left, the two men following her.

  Back at the vehicle, London turned to Fern. “We’ll sort through this mess at your house, so you can retrieve any mail important to you. We’ll open the rest in front of you, but you won’t have to read them. Maybe you can tell if any smell wrong.”

  She considered that, then shrugged. “That’s fine, but you’re buying pizza. I’m not.”

  He gave a half bark of laughter.

  Steve turned to look at her. “You weren’t even surprised by the amount of mail, were you?”

  She stared at him steadily. “No. When people hate, they do so with a vengeance.”

  *

  London helped Fern into the vehicle. He motioned Steve a couple feet away from the SUV. London wasn’t comfortable with the various layers of awareness opening before him. It had been easier to accept his life if he blocked her out. He didn’t understand everything she’d gone through—but he was starting to. He’d been too busy dealing with his brother’s decline, his parents’ death, his brother’s accusations against Fern and the realization that the woman he’d fallen in love with was quite possibly a killer. Yet he’d been unable to believe it inside; only he still had to face the evidence that all his coworkers and the police had laid out before him. He’d been so conflicted, and, despite it all, he’d loved her fiercely but had never told her. As he looked back to that time, he realized just how much the killer had to know about her.

  “What’s up?” Steve asked, joining London.

  “Just thinking,” London said, but he and his partner had their backs to Fern in the SUV.

  The killer had stalked her. Left evidence almost every step of the way. Too much. All circumstantial. All too convenient.

  But London’s complaints at the time, his protests that she was innocent, had fallen on deaf ears. Nobody wanted to listen to him. He went against the current beliefs held by both the FBI and local police. All were ready and geared up, swinging forward, delighted to have somebody who looked good for the crimes.

  “About what?” Steve asked.

  “Both sets of murders.”

  It didn’t matter if she was innocent or not. There’d been a lot of cussing and swearing as the court case had taken a sudden turn. She’d stood defiant in front of them all and had stated quite clearly that she’d had nothing to do with any murders. And, when her defense attorney had picked apart the case, built upon layers of hope rather than evidence, the jury had been swift in deciding she wasn’t guilty.

  But, of course, the fallout for her had been horrific. London had been shocked at the incredible bagful of mail that had awaited her return, thinking about how people had put so much energy into spewing their hate, putting their anger from their own lives into a target they could reach. He was both ashamed and frustrated. He had been caught in a maelstrom the last time. Not convinced, but overrun by the establishment.

  “You got anything?” Steve asked, his expression worried.

  London shook his head. “Not yet. But it’s got to be here somewhere.”

  He hadn’t known quite what to think. His heart wanted to believe in her. But his brother had said she’d been guilty. In the back of London’s mind was an inkling of fear that his brother may have had something to do with planting some of that trial evidence. Derek had certainly been eager to turn the cops in her direction.

  As London considered that, a memory whispered through his mind. One that made his gut knot.

  Derek. At the desk, writing a letter.

  At the time, London hadn’t thought anything of it. Just his brother being his brother—an oddball, but unique and good in so many ways.

  But Derek had quickly hidden the papers. Shoving them in a drawer before London could read them.

  “I see you thought of something. What is it?” Steve asked.

  “My brother …”

  Now as he thought about the huge stack of Fern’s most recent mail, he knew in his heart there would be one letter—likely so many more—from his brother.

  And what the hell would he do about that?

  Had Derek also manufactured evidence to make Fern look guilty? London’s brother wasn’t a cop and didn’t have anything to do with law enforcement. He was certainly a cop-show fanatic, but that wasn’t the same thing. His brother had worked at the conservatory, then left to try his hand at a manufacturing company. He’d lost his job there after falling apart just before the court case, shortly following their parents’ deaths.

  Derek’s decline afterward had been swift. He stayed at home and did basically nothing. But when Fern had been in the courthouse, he’d been one of her loudest accusers. And, with a sinking feeling, London knew he needed to talk to his brother and open the subject they’d both avoided. He would break that silent truce between them right now. If his brother had done something wrong, he needed to confess. Derek had been very angry back then. Maybe getting his revenge on her was enough now. Derek had certainly helped ruin her life.

  But Derek’s own had fallen in such a way that it was hard to believe she was the only one who had lost that round.

  In a low voice, Steve muttered beside him, “You okay?”

  London nodded. “I just realized I need to have a serious talk with my brother.”

  “You’re going alone then. I’d do a lot to avoid him.”

  On that cryptic note, Steve hopped into the driver’s side. London got in on his a lot slower. He wanted to ask Steve what he meant by that. But then, as London considered how other people viewed his brother, he realized most thought Derek was a mess. Somebody on his way down, determined to drag others with him.

  Although London had only met Steve when his boss introduced them, Steve had known Derek off and on for years, and had seen the decline and wanted nothing to do with him.

  London would like to believe his brother had isolated himself so he didn’t take anybody else down with him, but Derek had always been weak. Easily influenced by others. As kids, London had used that against him. But, as adults, he’d watched his brother in despair. He didn’t know what it would take to make Derek stand up and face the world. London hoped their relationship would survive the upcoming discussion. But he knew it would spark the nastiness he’d been avoiding.

  If there was ever a time to stand up for the truth before it became buried in yet another nightmare of accusations, this was it. Somebody had to be close enough to Fern to know her actions, her daily movements. Close enough to understand what she’d done and how she failed or succeeded, and to watch the pain and suffering she’d gone through at the trial.

  His brother fit that description before—but not now—at least London hoped not.

  London had been numb at the time. And yet inside he knew it was no excuse. He should’ve stood up for her more. He had, but not enough. Guilt riddled him inside.

  He pulled out his phone and sent his brother a text.

  I need to talk to you. When’s a good time?

  His brother’s response was quick.

  If it’s a conversation I’ll enjoy—anytime. If you’re opening a subject I have no intention of discussing—never.

  London winced, then sat back and thought about it. But there was no alternative. Derek must face the facts. He typed a response,

  We need to talk. It’s a discussion that’ll happen whether you like it or not. When do you want to do it?

  He waited, checking his phone several times. But there was no response.

  I’ll stop by at the end of the day.

  Steve had noticed London on the phone and said, “Bet he won’t see you. Th
at guy is in denial mode.”

  “You’re right there.” Unfortunately, they were past the point of that being an option.

  In the back of the SUV, Fern sat quietly beside the huge bag of mail. London glanced at her, gave her a reassuring smile and got a cold look in return. He shook his head. Under his breath, he whispered, “What a mess.”

  Steve gave him a sharp look. From the back seat came a snort.

  “Now that it’s involving you, it’s a mess,” she said in a mocking voice. “It’s been affecting me since forever.” She settled in the back of the car and didn’t say another word until they got to her house.

  *

  It was hard not to laugh. If the FBI intended to help her, that would be a complete recipe for disaster. They’d been such a great help last time—not. He chuckled quietly. The FBI was going around in circles. That was because the main dog in the alpha pack was sniffing the bitch’s backend. You should always keep personal shit away from business.

  Man, he’d done something right when the world turned against her like that. It was a weapon he wanted to utilize more. Some avenues here were completely unexplored. It fascinated him to see the group consciousness rise and attack with the mentality of a pack of wolves.

  It didn’t matter if they thought she was guilty or not; they were prepared to believe she was just so they could lash out. They were insignificant and angry little people who needed something to release the irate poison from their souls. They were fools, but they were comical ones. He quite enjoyed watching it all happen. He’d even gone in and checked her laptop at one point. She’d left her email open, and, seeing all the nastiness coming in, had been amazed.

  She was never on social media—which was too bad. He could have learned more about her that way. So he’d hunted the Internet for any reference to her. But eventually the news stopped writing about Dr. Death. He’d been happy with that, thinking her professional life was over and done. Until she had showed up at the Garden of Death. Her anonymity gone, her notoriety bringing in thousands of dollars for the UK garden. What a joke.

  Even then she showed up, smelling of roses.

  Bitch.