Marta Perry - Murder in Plain Sight

“I don’t know.” Her gaze slid away from his. “My mother died when I was two.”

“I’m sorry.” He couldn’t help it-he put his hand over hers where it lay on the covering. Maybe that explained the instant bond she’d seemed to form with his mother. “You must miss her.”

“I don’t have many memories.” She frowned. “Sometimes I think I can remember her face, but I’m never sure if it’s real or a photo.”

“Who took care of you then?”

“I had a nanny. An honest-to-goodness proper English nanny, like Mary Poppins.”

“Did she dance on the rooftops and fly with her umbrella?”

Her eyes warmed when she smiled. “Not quite, but I always half expected her to. Nanny Grace was a wonderful woman-hugged me, comforted me, scolded me, trotted me off to Sunday school, went to all the mother-daughter affairs.”

“She sounds ideal. I’ll bet you’re still close.”

A shadow crossed her face. “I…we lost touch. When I was about eight, my father decided I’d be better off at boarding school.”

“That seems young to go away to school.” He was responding to the feeling under the words, and he discovered that he knew exactly what those feelings were. Loss. Loneliness. Abandonment.

“It was.” Her mouth moved as if she made an effort to smile and couldn’t quite manage it. “Well, anyway. Enough about the past. Just cherish your mother.”

“I do.” He brushed a lock of hair back from her face with a gentle finger. It flowed through his hand like silk. “It sounds as if you got the short end of the stick when it came to parents. I’m sorry.”

She could have responded with a tale of a wonderful relationship with her father, but he wasn’t surprised when she didn’t. Any man who would send a small child away from the only security she knew couldn’t be much of a father.

She settled a bit deeper into the pillow. “I did all right.” There was an edge of defensiveness in her voice. “Everybody doesn’t have the picture-perfect American family like you do.”

Before he could react, her eyes flew open. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I forgot.”

“No wonder. You’re half-asleep from those pills they gave you.” He stroked her hair. “It’s okay. I guess everybody has something rough in their family to deal with. At least I had my dad for a lot of years.” Time to form a lot of good memories, unlike Jessica’s situation with her mother.

“And your mother…”

Whatever else she was going to say seemed to drift away. More than half-asleep, he decided. Ninety percent of the way, maybe.

He stroked her hair. “Just rest.” Obeying an impulse, he bent to touch her lips gently with his.

It was meant to be nothing-a comforting gesture, nothing more. But she woke at his touch, her lips warming, coming alive under his. He slid his arms around her, feeling her touch as her unbandaged hand stoked the back of his neck, drawing him even closer. He was falling into the embrace, they both were, and where-

The front door swung open, and Sam gave a welcoming bark. “Trey, Jessica, we’re here,” his mother called unnecessarily.

He pulled back. Jessica’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide and dark.

“Trey…” She whispered his name.

THEY HAD ALL GANGED UP on Jessica the next day, insisting she spend it being coddled by Geneva instead of working. Geneva had fixed her favorite things to eat and smoothed the covers over her in the four-poster bed in the cozy guest room. Rather guiltily, she’d enjoyed it.

But by midafternoon, Jessica’s mind had begun churning over the facts of the case. She had a little more ammunition now, thanks to the drug tests and to Peggy’s willingness to testify, but was it enough to convince a jury?

Leaving the bedroom behind, she wandered into the family room, sunny and pleasant with its white wicker and flowered cretonne slipcovers. The television set in the corner was turned on to a game show, the sound muted.

Jessica sat down at the desk, trying to organize her thoughts. There were avenues yet to explore, if only she could ignore the throbbing in her head long enough to make a list.

“Jessica, what are you doing out here?” Geneva hurried into the room, her tone scolding. “I thought you were resting.”

“I’m rested out.” That sounded too blunt, and she patted Geneva’s hand in apology. “I can’t stop thinking about the case. Usually I can compartmentalize business, but not this time.”

Geneva nodded, pulling over a bentwood rocker and sitting down. “I know. I do understand. Some things are just so consuming you can’t get your mind off them.” Her eyes misted, and she rubbed the smooth surface of the chair arms. “After my husband’s death, I couldn’t think of anything else. People tried to take me out, distract me, as if that would make me forget.”

For a moment Jessica couldn’t speak. Then she put her hand over Geneva’s. “I’m sure you never could.”

“No.” Geneva sighed. “The police say he killed himself. I couldn’t believe Blake would do that. It haunted me. It still does, but I’ve learned to accept what can’t be changed.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words were inadequate. She hadn’t expected such a confidence. Geneva was giving her the gift of being open with her, and she sought for a response. Probably the only fitting one was to be open in return. “My mother died when I was very small. I don’t really remember her, but I still feel her absence, if you know what I mean.”

Geneva nodded, her grip tightening on Jessica’s hand. “I know.”

“But you…you’ve accepted your loss.” She was trying to grope her way to an understanding of something she rarely allowed herself to think about. “How have you done that?”

“Turned it over to God,” Geneva said. “Each time the burden seemed too heavy, or I didn’t think I could go another step without Blake, I just reached out for His hand. It was always there.”

“That must be very comforting, to know you have someone to lean on.”

Geneva sighed again. “It’s harder for some people, I think. Trey, for instance. He’s so determined to be the strong one that he can’t admit he needs help, but he does.”

Trey would hate it if he thought she’d discussed him with his mother. Even though Geneva had brought it up, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he’d blame it on her.

“Trey seems to feel it’s his duty to take care of everyone else,” she said carefully. “Right now, he’s torn between wanting to protect you from involvement in the case and wanting to protect me by having me here, which is a really good reason for me to go back to the motel.”

“I won’t hear of it,” Geneva said instantly. “How on earth does Trey think he can keep me away from the case? I’m committed to seeing Thomas exonerated. That’s what’s right.”

“Unfortunately, being right isn’t enough in a court of law. We have to be able to prove it.” She gestured toward the television set in the corner. The noon news had come on, and Thomas’s face flashed on the screen.

Geneva lifted the remote to turn up the sound. The reporter, having nothing new to report, rehashed the case, sitting in front of a picture of Cherry Wilson, head thrown back, laughing.

“It’s disgraceful,” she muttered. “They take it for granted he is guilty.”

“The reporting hasn’t crossed the line, but each time people hear something like that, they become more convinced that Thomas is guilty. If we can’t find some way to counter the bad publicity, I’m afraid we’ll never find an impartial jury.”

“If…” Geneva stared at the television screen, her face curiously blank.

“Geneva? Is something wrong?”

Her usual smile erased the impression. “No, not at all. You just reminded me of something.”