Murder in Plain Sight (11 page)

Jessica squeezed her hand firmly, her heart touched by the obvious caring in the older woman’s expression. “I wouldn’t think of giving up on Thomas. I’m not going to be scared off by a few nasty notes.”

And a few slashed tires, her mind added. To say nothing of that person in the parking lot. And the dead bird.

“Well, you can’t continue to stay at that dreadful motel by yourself,” Geneva said. “You must move in here with us, where you’ll be safe and we can look after you.”

“Jessica may not think this place is all that safe.” Trey’s jaw was tight, but a tiny muscle twitched as if to testify to the enormous effort it took to control his anger. Ugliness and danger had come right to the very doorstep of the Morgan family’s peaceful enclave. No doubt he thought that was his responsibility, too.

“It’s not that,” Jessica answered his emotion as much as his words. “We’re all upset right now. Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

“Jessica’s right,” Leo said. “We’re not in any shape to make decisions now.”

“Besides, maybe Chief Byler will find something,” Jessica added. “He seemed very competent.”

“Adam’s a good guy. Smart. He can’t touch the original crime, but this was in his jurisdiction, and he won’t take it lightly.” Trey’s tension seemed to ease. “Maybe you have a point. We can talk all these through once we’ve had a decent night’s sleep.” He turned to her. “If you want to stay here tonight—”

It took all her determination to make her stand. Smile. Look braver than she felt. “No, thanks. I’ll head back to the motel. Again.”

“I’ll follow you there.” Trey’s tone didn’t allow for any argument.

Once again Jessica said her good-nights, once again she and Trey walked outside together. He waited while she got in and started the car, and she didn’t miss his glance into the backseat, as if to assure himself there were no unwelcome surprises. Only when she’d locked the door did he walk to his pickup and climb in.

She’d expected to have some reaction once she was finally alone, but she didn’t, perhaps because
she wasn’t really alone. Trey was there, in the reflection of his lights, shining and steady in her rearview mirror.

By the time she pulled up to the motel, she was yawning. Maybe she’d actually sleep tonight. This time the space directly in front of her unit was free, and she pulled in with only the faintest inward quiver.

Still, she was cautious enough not to open the door until Trey had drawn up beside her. He got out, leaving the truck’s motor running.

She slid from the seat before he could open the door for her, grabbing her laptop. “Thanks so much for the bodyguard duty. I’ll be fine now.”

He managed a smile, but his strong-boned face looked stern in the dim light. “My mother always told me I should walk a lady to her door.”

“That sounds a little old-fashioned for Geneva.” She fell into step with him. “Are you sure you’re not making that up?”

He gave her a look of mock astonishment. “My mother might look like a flower child from time to time, but she was brought up in the strictest Main Line tradition. We learned to write thank-you notes before most kids learned their ABCs.”

“We?”

“My brother and sister and I.”

She stopped at the door, fishing in her bag for her key. “I saw a picture in the family room. They’re younger than you, aren’t they?” She hadn’t had any trouble picking out Trey’s face in the family photo—he hadn’t really changed all that much from his younger self.

“Link and Libby. Twins, two years younger than I am.” His mouth twitched. “It’s a good thing they’re not here, or they’d be in this thing up to their necks.”

“And then you’d have someone else to protect.” She looked up in his face as he took the key card and opened the door for her. “Don’t you ever get tired of being in charge?”

If his face changed at that, she couldn’t be sure. The door opened, letting out a soft glow from the lamp she’d left on. She tried to smile, tried to find something casual to say.

“I’ll…”

He touched her cheek, and whatever she’d intended to say was lost in the warmth that emanated from that touch. Her breath caught as his palm cradled her face, tipping it up to his.

His lips found hers, tentatively at first, and then more surely. His hand trailed down her neck, and
she felt the pulse there pound against his palm. Warmth flooded through her.

He pulled away, finally, looking as startled and bemused as she must have looked. His fingers trailed down her cheek, leaving heat in their wake.

“Good night.” His voice was husky. “Lock the door.”

He waited until she was inside, until the dead bolt clicked. And she waited until she heard his footsteps recede and the truck drive away. Even then, her breath still came quickly.

Something had happened, something more than just a kiss. She didn’t know exactly what it meant, but she knew that their relationship had changed. Irrevocably.

B
Y THE TIME
T
REY
reached the house, reality had set in. He couldn’t begin a relationship with Jessica when they were in the midst of something that could change lives forever. All their attention had to be focused on finding the truth.

Was that what Jessica wanted? Or would she be content with anything that cleared her client? He didn’t know. He’d stumbled into caring about her without even considering whether she shared his values.

He put the truck away and walked into the house, where he was met by Sam, tail waving gently. “Good boy.” He patted the silky head.

A light shone down the hallway—the light in his father’s study. He followed it, uneasy. Mom seldom went in there these days, although she’d practically lived there in the weeks after Dad’s death.

He paused in the doorway. His mother sat in
the leather armchair that had been Dad’s, her eyes closed.

“Mom? Anything wrong?”

She shook her head, but when she opened her eyes, he saw that they had filled with tears. He strode to her, sitting on the leather hassock and taking her hands in his. “What is it?”

Sam whined a little, maybe at the tone of his voice. He padded across the room and put his head in Mom’s lap.

She gave a watery chuckle. “You two are just alike. Too worried about me. I’m fine.”

“If you were fine, you wouldn’t be sitting here crying.” He tried to keep his voice even, but it did strange things to his insides to see his mother cry.

“I’m just being a bit foolish.” She wiped her eyes with both palms. “I started wondering what your father would think about all of this, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting here crying.”

“I’m sorry.” He felt about as awkward as a man could feel. “I know how much you miss him.”

“He was my rock.” Her lips curved. “Not that we always agreed on everything, mind you. But he was solid, all the way through.”

“I know.” He did know. His father had defined integrity.

“I’ve never understood, you know. I think I’ve accepted what…what he did, but I don’t understand.”

He didn’t either, but he didn’t suppose it would do any good to say so. “Maybe he didn’t want to put us through it. If he was convinced he wasn’t going to get well—”

“But he had a chance.” Her fingers bit into his hands. “The oncologist was encouraging. He said that even if Blake could never get entirely well, he could have lived with the cancer for a while, at least. We’d have had that time together.”

If Dad wanted to spare Mom seeing him go through that final decline, maybe Trey could understand that, at least a little, but his mother wouldn’t want to hear that.

She sat up a little straighter and patted his hands. “Well, it’s foolish to keep going over it.” She paused, seeming to stare past him, maybe into the past. “Trey, did you ever feel as if your father had something else on his mind those last weeks?”

“Something else?” He drew back, his gaze instinctively going to the framed photograph on the end table next to the chair—a family camping trip,
with Dad grinning and pulling a protesting Libby into the circle of his arm, Trey and Link behind him, leaning on his shoulders. He’d been about thirteen, the twins eleven that summer.

His mother nodded. “I could never quite put my finger on it. Sometimes I convince myself I’m mistaken about it, but then I see his face again. Worrying. And that was before he got the news from the doctor.”

Trey tried to think through those weeks, only to discover that they’d been completely obliterated by the twin shocks they’d endured—learning about the cancer, then Dad’s suicide.

“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t think I noticed anything. He might have been preoccupied with business. Or maybe he guessed there was something wrong with his health but wasn’t ready to admit it yet.”

“That could be. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.” The words sounded lost. Then she shook her head. “All this worry about Thomas has made me morbid. And now these threats against Jessica. The world seems turned upside down.”

“Just pieces of it. We’ll find the answers.” We have to.

“There’s another thing.” Mom shoved Sam’s head gently off her lap and stood. “I thought of it when we were talking about your dad’s collection of hex signs.”

Trey glanced toward the wall opposite his father’s desk. The rows of brightly colored wooden hex signs covered most of it with geometric shapes, flowers, stylized birds. “What about it?”

“I remembered seeing this.” She took something from the desk and laid it on his palm. A miniature hex sign, but not like the ones that lined the walls. This one was different. A raven, done all in black—it was the symbol that marked the threatening note.

His fingers closed over it, the wood cutting into them. “Where did this come from?”

“I don’t know. I saw your father looking at it once. When I asked, he said someone had given it to him. Then he put it in his desk drawer, closed the drawer and started talking about something else.” Her face clouded. “Trey, I don’t understand. What does it mean?”

He couldn’t answer. He didn’t understand either. But the cold prickle down his spine suggested that it wasn’t anything good.

B
Y THE TIME
J
ESSICA
arrived at the Springville Inn the next afternoon to talk to Cherry’s employer and fellow workers, she had accepted the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to forget what had happened with Trey last night. Just letting her thoughts stray in that direction made her cheeks warm and her lips tingle. The best she could do was suppress the memory long enough to get her work done.

The parking lot at the inn was sparsely populated. Apparently she’d guessed right, timing her visit for well after the lunch rush. With any luck, Owen Barclay, the inn’s manager, would be available to talk with her and would be willing to steer her to any particular friends Cherry had among her coworkers.

At least this couldn’t be any less fruitful than the two visits she’d already made today. The first, to the jail to talk with Thomas yet again, had been discouraging. The boy had been pale, his eyes huge in a drawn face. This relatively short time in jail must seem like an eternity to him.

If he were sentenced to state prison…her stomach twisted rebelliously at the thought. Could he even survive that? She doubted it, which made her task all the more crucial. She had to find something—anything—on which to build a defense.

So far this day hadn’t produced much. She’d thought to start off with Chip Fulton, despite Trey’s determination to keep her from doing just that. However, fate had done what Trey hadn’t been able to. She’d called the garage where Chip worked, but his irate employer said Chip hadn’t been in for days.

She frowned, walking around the brick-and-frame inn to the front door. That was odd, now that she thought about it. Did the police realize Chip had been absent from his workplace all week? It was certainly worth following up.

She rounded a clump of rhododendron and the Springville Inn spread out in front of her. The graceful Federal building stretched welcoming wings out on both sides of a core that surely dated back to pre-Revolutionary days. It was everything that a country inn should be; everything that her motel was not. She could just imagine what the officer manager’s reaction would be if she turned in an expense voucher for a place like this.

A glass-paneled door opened into a center hallway with a lofty ceiling, wainscoted walls and an arched entrance to what was obviously the dining room where Cherry had worked. She’d like to walk straight in there and start interviewing Cherry’s
coworkers, who surely were the people most likely to have understood her, but protocol demanded she speak with the manager first.

The graying, motherly type behind the reception desk nodded pleasantly, heard her name with only a hint of undue curiosity and departed to fetch the manager.

“Ms. Langdon.” Owen Barclay advanced on her with an outstretched hand. “Leo Frost told us you’d be coming by. Welcome to the Springville Inn. How can I help you?”

Jessica shook hands, ticking over her impressions of the man. The welcome seemed a bit overdone, but for all she knew, he could be a friend of the Morgan family, or at least eager to please them. As for the rest, Barclay was somewhere in his forties, with a trim figure showing just a hint of flab under the well-tailored suit jacket, dark hair artistically touched with gray at the temples and hands so well kept that he must surely visit a manicurist on a regular basis. He had a politician’s smile that didn’t quite warm watchful dark eyes.

“It’s kind of you to make time for me.” She said the expected words. “As you know, we’re representing Thomas Esch, and I hoped I might speak with you about Cherry Wilson.”

“Of course. Come and sit down.” He piloted her to a cluster of upholstered furniture in the lobby, his hand a little too familiar on her elbow. She took an upright chair rather than the sofa he tried to steer her to. He sat down opposite her.

“Yes, yes, a sad business.” His face registered appropriate sorrow. “Such a tragedy, to see two young lives ruined because of drugs and alcohol.”

“I take it you’re assuming Thomas is guilty.”

“Oh, well, innocent until proven guilty and all that. One would hate to think an Amish youth would do such a thing. They’re solid citizens, important to the local economy.”

They brought in all the tourists who stayed at the inn, in other words. “Can you tell me a little about Cherry?”

“I can’t say I knew her all that well. Not outside work, that is. She was a good server, popular with the patrons, got along with her coworkers, always pleasant and cooperative.”

She began to think that a lengthy conversation with Owen Barclay might give her whiplash, watching him leap from one side to the other of every issue. At least Trey was uncompromisingly blunt.

And what was Trey doing, sneaking into her thoughts that way?

Clearly she wasn’t going to get anything from Barclay but platitudes. “I’d like to speak with some of Cherry’s coworkers. Was there anyone with whom she was particularly good friends?”

“I don’t know…well, I suppose.” He rose. “You might try Milly Cotter or Kristin McGowan.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barclay. You’ve been most helpful.”

“My pleasure.” He pressed her hand a little too long. “Come and see us anytime.”

Freeing her hand, she escaped toward the dining room. It was empty, with the round tables obviously in the midst of being relaid for the dinner service, but a woman came through the swinging door from the kitchen, stopping when she saw Jessica.

“Sorry, we don’t start serving again until five.” She straightened the mobcap that sat atop curly brown hair. The outfit, with its white apron and square-yoked dress, was obviously meant to suggest colonial days. “You could try the Village Soda Shop. They’re open now.”

“That’s all right. I’m not looking for something to eat. In fact, I think I’m looking for you, if you’re Milly.” She nodded toward the young woman’s name badge.

“That’s me.” The pert face sobered. “If you’re a reporter—”

“My name is Jessica Langdon. I’m an attorney, working on the Thomas Esch case. Would you be willing to talk with me?”

“I don’t think—” She darted a glance toward the reception desk.

“Mr. Barclay said it was all right. He suggested I talk with you and Kristin McGowan.”

The young woman shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s okay. Kristin’s not on today, though.” She pulled out a chair. “We might as well sit. I’ll be on my feet enough later.”

“I know what you mean.” Jessica sat down across the table from her. “I waited tables in college. I used to go home and soak my feet while I counted my tips.”

A smile dissolved the wary look on Milly’s face. “That’s me, too. I’m a junior at Gettysburg College. Believe me, I don’t want to wait tables all my life.”

“Did Cherry feel that way?” Maybe she’d finally get something to make the woman more than just a figure in a crime-scene photo.

She got a doubtful look in return. “Cherry wasn’t interested in college, if that’s what you mean. She said it was okay if you didn’t have anything better to do, but not for her.”

“So, did she have something better to do?”

“Not unless partying is your only goal in life.” Milly’s mobile face broke into a grin. “Come to think of it, she’d have fit right in with the party animals at school.”

“Did you know her well?”

Milly shrugged. “We talked. You can’t help doing that when you work with someone.”

“Did Cherry have a boyfriend?”

“Not so’s you could notice. She dated some guy who worked in a garage, but I always had the feeling she was looking for something better.”

That would be Chip, no doubt. This didn’t seem to be adding much to what she already knew. “Did she ever talk about Thomas Esch?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, she used to laugh about how wild a few of the Amish kids got at parties, but she never mentioned him in particular.”

“What about anyone else she might have dated? A guy she dumped, or someone who had a grudge against her?”

“She used to drive the chef wild by saying his soup needed more salt, but you don’t kill someone for that. She was always one for a joke, y’know? It seemed like she could find the one thing that would drive someone wild and pick on that.”

That was an interesting sidelight on Cherry’s personality, but Jessica didn’t see that it got her much further. “Nobody she turned down? Someone who wanted to date her?”

“Well, not other than…” She sent a wary glance toward the reception area.

“Barclay, you mean?” She wasn’t surprised. “Were they an item?”

“I shouldn’t say anything.” Milly leaned toward her, lowering her voice. “He tried, but she wasn’t having any of it. He’s married, though you wouldn’t know it to listen to him around here. Not that Cherry would have let his being married bother her, but she said it couldn’t lead anywhere, and when it was over, like as not she’d be the one out of a job and with nothing to show for it. Always had an eye out for what was in it for her—that was Cherry.”

A line of speculation opened up in Jessica’s mind. Cherry was a party girl—everyone who knew her agreed on that. Maybe she’d partied with the wrong person, or refused to party with someone who didn’t take rejection well. There could be any number of possibilities other than Thomas, including, perhaps, Owen Barclay.