Читать книгу Murder in Plain Sight - Marta Perry - Страница 13

BY THE TIME JESSICA pulled into the parking lot at her town-house complex in Philadelphia, her head was splitting. She’d hit the city just in time for rush-hour traffic. Nobody wanted to be caught on the Schuylkill Expressway, known as the Sure-kill by locals, at that time of day.

Her headache intensified when her cell phone rang just as she walked in the front door. She frowned at the number.

Her father. That was unusual enough to give her a jolt of apprehension as she answered.

“Dad. Is anything wrong?”

“Perhaps I should be asking you that question, Jessica.” Her father’s voice was as crisp as if he were talking to an erring subordinate. “I understand you’re on shaky ground at work.”

She was tempted to ask how he knew that, but that would be pointless. Her father moved in rarified judicial circles, where everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she said, hoping that was true as she closed the door behind her.

“I hope that’s true.” His voice echoed her thoughts. “I’ve invested my own political capital in obtaining that position for you. Don’t disappoint me.”

That was all. No question about whether she was being judged unfairly, no expressions of concern. She and her father didn’t have that sort of relationship. Still, he loved her in his own way, didn’t he?

“I’ll do my best.”

“Naturally.” Unspoken was his obvious suspicion that her best wouldn’t be good enough. “I’ll talk with you on the weekend.”

She hung up and blew out a frustrated breath as she turned toward her roommate. Sara Davenport was collapsed in their one recliner with her computer on her lap. “My father,” she said in explanation. “He’s heard about the job situation.”

“Don’t let it get to you,” Sara said, her voice warm with sympathy. She was one of the few people who knew how just how rocky Jessica’s relationship with her father was.

“I try.” She dropped onto the sofa, leaning her head back. “I’m going to have to get a motel room in Lancaster County, at least for the next week or so. Driving back and forth is a killer.”

“Don’t you have a date with Brett Dunleavy on Friday?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’d forgotten. I’ll have to cancel.”

“You’d forgotten. Need I point out that that is a sad commentary on your relationship with young Dr. Brett?”

She’d have thrown a pillow at Sara if she weren’t so tired. “Brett understands. Given how busy his residency keeps him, he’s no more eager to get seriously involved at this point than I am.” She’d tried serious. It hadn’t worked.

“Couple of workaholics. Sounds like a match made in heaven.” Sara grinned. “So you’re forgetting your love life. This case must be a stinker.”

“It is, but what makes you think so?”

“If the partners were that ready to pass it off to you, that means they didn’t want to deal with it themselves.” Sara set the computer on the coffee table and shoved her glasses up on her head, using them to hold back her unruly tangle of red hair.

Since Sara had spent two years in a topflight firm in the city before escaping to a legal-aid office where she said she could at least help people who needed it, her advice was usually on target.

“You’re probably right.” Jessica rubbed her aching temples. “Henderson implied that the woman who’s paying for the defense asked for me, but I don’t see how that can be.”

“What’s the case? I haven’t had anything more interesting lately than the usual run of rotten absentee landlords. I spent the day arguing with a housing inspector, trying to convince him to do his job.”

“This would be right up your alley,” Jessica said. “You always like taking on the hopeless cases. I’ve got an Amish kid accused of the beating death of a woman who was apparently something of a party girl.”

“Amish? That is unusual. I can’t remember the last time I saw anything about an Amish person suspected in a crime.”

She hadn’t thought of Sara as a source of information. Maybe she should have. “I take it that means you’ve never represented one.”

“The Amish don’t spend much time in the city. I’ve been on the usual tour of Lancaster County, but that’s about it. Tell me about the defendant.”

“There’s not much to tell at this point.” Jessica rubbed the back of her neck, trying to get rid of the tension there. “He doesn’t trust me enough to talk to me, and I don’t know how to get through to him. His minister wants me off the case, and as far as I can tell, most of the community thinks he’s guilty.”

“What about the person who’s paying you?”

Jessica thought about how to explain Geneva Morgan. She wasn’t sure she could even explain to herself the effect the woman had on her.

“She’s totally convinced that the boy—Thomas Esch—is innocent, but it’s based on instinct, not on facts.”

Sara’s nose wrinkled. “I wouldn’t discount instinct, at least not if you thought her opinion reliable.”

“I’m not sure. Geneva—well, she seemed a bit quirky, I guess. Warmhearted. I can’t say what kind of judge of character she is on one brief phone conversation and an acquaintance of fifteen minutes or so.”

“But you liked her,” Sara said.

“Yes, I did.” There was no harm in admitting that. “She certainly has faith in the boy. And faith in my ability to prove him innocent. As for whether she’s right—well, her son doesn’t think so.”

“Her son? What does he have to do with it?” Sara snuggled into the chair, grinning. “Come on, give.”

“He tried to get rid of me, because he doesn’t want his mother involved in something this nasty.”

“Overprotective,” Sara said.

“Overprotective, arrogant, used to being the boss, I’d guess. And he’s determined to dog my footsteps to make sure I don’t do anything that reflects badly on the family.”

“Sounds like a pompous jerk.” Sara dismissed Trey with a wave of her hand. “If his mother retained you and the client agrees, he has nothing to do with it.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to deal with him.” And besides, Sara had more assertiveness in her little finger than Jessica had in her whole body. “It’s curious that Mr. Henderson is so keen on pleasing the Morgan family. I’d have said they were big fish in a small pond, frankly. Important enough in their little world, but hardly the type to impress Henderson.”

“Let’s see who they are.” Sara straightened, leaning toward the laptop. She looked at Jessica inquiringly. “Geneva Morgan, you said?”

“That’s right. The son’s name is Trey—well, actually Blake Winston Morgan the Third. But I’m not sure it’s appropriate to be looking them up.” It always made her feel like a stalker to do that, but Sara never hesitated to check Google even for casual acquaintances.

Sara’s fingers moved rapidly on the keys. “Hmm.”

“Hmm what?”

Her roommate grinned. “Aren’t you afraid it’s inappropriate?”

“Never mind that.” She crossed the room to perch on the arm of Sara’s chair. “What did you find?”

“Geneva is from a Main Line Philadelphia family—the kind of people who go to the right schools, marry the right people and only appear in the newspapers when they’re born, when they marry and when they die. That’s probably the answer. Maybe she went to the same exclusive girls’ school as your Mr. Henderson’s wife. Those people all know each other.”

Jessica couldn’t help but smile at the description, thinking of Geneva. “She must have been the outlaw, then. She dresses like a ’60s hippie. How did you get all that so quickly?”

Sara shrugged, not bothering to point out that she was a pro when it came to finding information about people. “I went on the assumption that Winston was Geneva’s maiden name. Easy enough to find her birth and marriage record. The rest of it is informed supposition, based on a lifetime of knowledge of Philadelphia society.”

“Come to think of it, she did mention something about Eva Henderson. What about Trey’s father?”

Sara’s fingers clicked on the keys. “Old county family, going right back to the original land grant from William Penn, it looks like. Nobody rich or famous, but solid citizens, all of them. Except…” The sassy tone in which she’d been reciting her research died away.

“Except what?” Jessica leaned over, trying to read the screen.

“Blake Morgan the Second. Your Trey’s father, I suppose. It seems he committed suicide about a year ago.”

“Suicide.” Jessica repeated the word, shocked and saddened. “I didn’t think—well, how could I know?” That would explain why Trey was so protective of his mother.

“The obituary is carefully worded. A newspaper report won’t be as tactful. If I can find anything else—” Keys clicked again, and Sara frowned at the screen.

It took only a few more minutes to find a newspaper account of the tragedy. Sara turned the laptop so that Jessica could read it for herself.

Trey’s father had shot himself in an isolated hunting cabin belonging to the family a few days after receiving a diagnosis of cancer. The photo showed a rustic cottage surrounded by dense woods. His son had been the one to find his body.

Jessica’s stomach twisted. “Poor man,” she murmured, not sure whether she was talking about Trey or his father. Maybe both.

“Yes,” Sara said, her normal ebullience muted. “But you can’t let it change how you deal with him. If he’s interfering in your case, you still have the right to brush him off. Politely, of course.”

She hadn’t been able to brush him off even when she’d resorted to rudeness. This made it a hundred times harder. She would have been better off not knowing. And poor Geneva…how difficult that must have been for her.

“What did you say the client’s name is?” Sara was clicking away again, undeterred.

“Thomas Esch. But you’re not going to find anything about him. I told you—he’s Amish. I don’t know much about them, but I’m pretty sure they avoid publicity. The original account I read gave only his name and age.”

Sara nodded, scanning quickly down through her search results. “You’re right about that. There’s nothing here except accounts of his arrest. He was taken into custody right after the body was discovered. He was still at the scene, either asleep or unconscious.”

“Right.” That was what Trey had said. “I’ll read through the rest of the coverage later.” If it came to asking for a change of venue, she’d need that ammunition. She rose, stretching. “Is there anything left of that chicken soup your mother sent over?”

Since Sara was a native Philadelphian, Jessica had benefited from her mother’s apparent conviction that they both needed quantities of home-cooked food every week in order to survive.

“You can have the rest of it,” Sara said absently, her gaze still intent on the computer screen. “Wait a minute. Here’s something you didn’t mention. Did you know that the barn where the body was found actually belongs to the Morgan family?”

Jessica stopped in the middle of a yawn. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what the paper says. They didn’t tell you?”

“No. Neither of them did.” Her mind whirled for a moment then settled. Geneva, in all her protestations of how innocent Thomas was, in all her talk of the gardening he did for her—was that only meant to establish that Thomas had access to the barn they owned?

And Trey. How could Trey have talked about the case as much as he had without mentioning the fact that he owned the barn where the murder occurred? He’d glossed over the finding of the body without so much as a hint of it.

The sympathy she’d been feeling for Trey after learning of his father’s suicide vanished. He’d lied to her. Well, maybe not lied, exactly, but he’d omitted an important piece of the truth. Which meant that she couldn’t trust Trey Morgan any farther than she could throw him.

TREY’S STOMACH CHURNED mercilessly as he pulled into the rutted track. Not because of the road. Because it led to the cabin where his father died.

Jonas Miller waited, leaning against a tree as if he had all the time in the world to spare, although Trey knew perfectly well that any Amish farmer had a long list of chores. Still, Jonas took all his responsibilities seriously, including looking after the Morgan hunting cabin and the surrounding property. It was a message from Jonas that had brought Trey here so unwillingly this morning.

He stopped the truck and climbed out, trying not to look at the cabin. “Morning, Jonas. I got your message.”

Jonas nodded gravely, his blue eyes serious in a weathered face above the beard that marked him as a married man. “Trey. I wish I had not had to bring you out here already.”

Trey shrugged, trying to ease the tension out of his shoulders. “It’s all right. I know you wouldn’t have sent for me unless something was wrong.”

The last thing that had been wrong at the cabin had been his father’s lifeless body, slumped over the table, the gun fallen from his fingers.

Jonas was silent, as if he knew and respected what Trey was thinking.

Trey took a breath and blew it out. “So. You came over and found the door open.”

“Chust cracked a bit, it was.” Jonas sounded troubled. “The padlock was lying on the porch floor.”

“Did you look inside?” The longer they stood and talked, the longer he could put off the moment at which he’d have to go in.

Jonas inclined his head. “I took a look, ja. Thinking it might have been teenagers, tearing places up. It did not seem anything was disturbed, so I thought it best to let it be until you could see.”

He couldn’t delay any longer. “Let’s have a look, then.”

He strode toward the cabin. The hunting cabin, they’d always called it, although Dad had never had much taste for hunting. Trey and his brother had gone through a phase of wanting to bag a buck when they were in their teens, and Dad had gone along with them, more to see them safe, he supposed, than because Dad wanted to shoot anything.

Still, they’d come out here often enough, whenever Dad wanted to get away from the telephone and have a bit of quiet. They’d fish the stream, cook out over an open fire and go to sleep watching the stars.

Good memories, plenty of them. Unfortunately they didn’t seem to cancel out the one terrible one.

Jonas stood back to let him go up the steps first. Trey crossed to the door and bent to examine the padlock. It wasn’t obviously damaged. He put his hand on the rough wood panel of the door, blanked out his thoughts as best he could and opened it.

At first glance, nothing seemed wrong. His gaze touched the kitchen table and skittered away. Nausea rose in his throat. He wanted to leave. The need pushed at him, pounded in his temples.

He couldn’t. Jonas’s sense of responsibility had brought him here. Trey’s own sense of responsibility forced him to stay, even though he ought to be back at Leo Frost’s office right now, keeping tabs on Jessica’s activities.

The cabin wasn’t large—a big room downstairs, divided into kitchen and living area, three tiny bedrooms upstairs, the smallest not much bigger than a closet.

He moved cautiously around the living room area, feeling as if any sudden gesture would set loose the pain that clawed at him.

Jonas made his own circuit. He stopped at the massive fieldstone fireplace that took up much of the outside wall. He squatted. “Someone has had a fire here. The hearth was clean and empty the last time I looked.”

Trey looked for himself. Jonas was right. “So someone’s been here, but not the usual teenage party crowd. They’d make more of a mess than this.”

“Ja, they would. A tramp, you think? Chust looking for shelter?”

“Could be.” Trey frowned. That didn’t feel right. They didn’t have tramps any longer, and Lancaster’s homeless wouldn’t be likely to come clear out here to find a roof.

Jonas had moved on to the kitchen, and Trey forced himself to follow. The memories were out in the open now. His mother’s worries when Dad didn’t come home that night. His own conviction that Dad needed a little time alone to deal with the bad news the doctor had delivered. Cancer. Serious, but something that could be fought.

But Dad hadn’t chosen to fight. The man Trey had always thought the bravest person he knew had put a gun to his head instead of battling the cancer. It didn’t make sense to him. It never had. He’d spent months trying to find a way to make that fact fit, but he couldn’t. If there had been something else troubling his father—

Trey looked at the table. He’d come in the door cautiously that morning, calling his father’s name, embarrassed at intruding on what he’d thought was a spiritual retreat on his father’s part. And found him dead.

The table and floor had been scrubbed clean since then, the table moved to a slightly different position. Jonas must have done that—Trey had certainly been in no shape to think of having it done.

He cleared his throat. “You cleaned up in here, after. Thank you.”

Jonas looked embarrassed at being thanked. “Ach, it was little enough to do for him. Your father was a fine man. Everyone knows that.”

Trey could only nod. Yes, everyone had known that.

“Trey—” Jonas hesitated for a moment. “It seems to me that only God can know what was in your father’s mind and heart in the last moments of his life. Only God can judge.”

Endless comforting platitudes had been aimed at Trey when he’d been in no shape to listen to them. Now, oddly enough, he found comfort in Jonas’s simple words.

“Thank you.”

Jonas was already turning away, with the typical Amish reluctance to accept thanks or compliments. He moved to the sink and stopped. “Look at this.”

Trey looked. An empty wine bottle lay in the sink. A moderately expensive bottle, not the sort of thing he’d expect the local teenagers to favor.

“Someone has been here,” Jonas said again.

“Yes. But I doubt we’re going to know who. Or why.” Some married man, meeting with a girlfriend on the sly? The thought sickened him—that someone would use the place his father died for such a purpose.

He straightened abruptly, leaving the bottle untouched. “I’ll get a new padlock and drop it off at your place, if you don’t mind putting it on. That’s all we can do.”

Jonas nodded. “It makes no trouble. I will take care of the lock.”

Turning his back on the table, Trey headed for the door. Maybe the best thing would be to put the place on the market. He didn’t see the family wanting to spend time here ever again. Let someone else worry about break-ins.

He was nearly at the door when a shaft of sunlight from the side window picked up a pinpoint of light reflecting from the leg of a wooden straight chair. He bent, running his hand down the leg.

His fingers touched a rough spot, jagged enough to snag a piece of fabric. He pulled the fabric free and looked at it.

A tiny red scrap, maybe an inch long and not more than an eighth of an inch wide. Tiny red sequins glittered when he moved it in his fingers.

Nothing. It meant nothing. It was the sort of thing someone who liked cheap finery would have worn. An image of Cherry Wilson popped into his mind, and he pushed it away. This had nothing to do with her.