The next morning, Evelyn drove straight to Aunt Bea’s modest cottage, the frustration and fear from the frozen accounts propelling her forward. She found Bea tending her small herb garden, the scent of lavender and rosemary filling the air.
“They froze my accounts,” Evelyn blurted out, skipping pleasantries. “Eleanor. She’s doing everything to stop me.”
Aunt Bea straightened, her trowel still in hand. She led Evelyn inside, to the small, cozy kitchen. She poured them both a cup of herbal tea.
“Eleanor is a formidable woman,” Bea said softly, her gaze steady. “She has always been.”
“You know something more, don’t you?” Evelyn pressed, leaning forward. “About her, about Arthur. It’s more than just what’s in Dad’s dossier. Please, Aunt Bea.”
Bea took a slow sip of her tea, her eyes distant, reliving an old memory. “Years ago,” she began, her voice barely a whisper, “Arthur was a reckless boy. Drank too much. Drove too fast. Hit a mailbox one night, swerved into old Mr. Henderson’s prize-winning rose bushes. Could have been much worse.”
She paused, looking directly at Evelyn. “The Cedar Creek Chronicle had a reporter, young fellow, wanting to make a name for himself. He had the story, photos, everything. He was going to print it.”
Aunt Bea’s jaw tightened. “Eleanor went to his office. I saw her. I was at the coffee shop across the street, waiting for Robert. She walked in, carrying a large, plain envelope. When she came out, the editor, Mr. Davies, looked… pale. The story never ran. Not a word.”
Evelyn stared, a cold realization settling deep in her bones. “She paid him off.”
Bea nodded slowly. “A few days later, Mr. Davies drove a brand new convertible. Cash payment, I heard.”
The chill that ran through Evelyn wasn’t just from the fresh information; it was the chilling confirmation of Eleanor’s methodical, decades-long pattern of cover-ups, of absolute control over the town’s narrative.
What other secrets, what other dark incidents, had Eleanor buried to protect her entitled son and the Cheney name?
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