Trial by Twelve
Page 18
THE SPENCER FAMILY turns out in force for Thomas’ swearing-in on Thursday. Thomas wears a tailored black suit, which makes him look like James Bond. I’m wearing my favorite dress. It has a mock-neck top covered with mint-colored pearls and a tulle skirt. I’m a bit overdressed but I feel like celebrating.
Mira Brooke takes her cues from us and claps when we do. Nikki Jo pulls numerous Kleenexes from her purse to quell the tears. Andrew grins, wearing an American flag T-shirt and dress pants for the occasion. Petey and Roger stand in typical Spencer-dude stances, with crossed arms and wide legs, proudly taking it all in.
Afterward, I hug Thomas. “Congrats to our new prosecuting attorney. You sure you don’t mind if I miss your party?”
“It’s just ice cream on the patio. Nothing big. I know Charlotte wanted to catch up with you before she has to move back to Morgantown.”
Charlotte leaves next week to find an apartment and to settle in before the semester starts. I still can’t believe she’s going, and I doubt the Good Doctor can either. I find myself wishing he’d propose and keep her nearby. But Charlotte is a wandering spirit, a gypsy girl. I’ve always known that. She’ll never stay in one place for long.
In Point Pleasant, I park the SUV and walk up Main Street to Kelly’s Coffee. Even the creepy silver Mothman statue can’t throw a damper on my mood…but I avoid looking at it anyway.
I’m surprised to find Rosemary sitting with Charlotte at an outdoor table. Rosemary stubs out her cigarette and smiles. “I hear you survived a run-in with a serial killer. That’s no small feat.”
“God protected me,” I say.
“God and Dani,” Charlotte says. “Boy, was there more to that California surfer girl than met the eye. I’m so glad she was there.”
Rosemary grins. “And I’ve been keeping a check on Byron. Not because he’s a killer, but because he’s killer cute.”
Charlotte groans. “He’s half your age.”
“And my dad’s twice yours,” she retorts.
“Not hardly.” Charlotte sips at her café au lait and I order a cappuccino. Rosemary shrugs and lights another cigarette.
“Look at us,” she says between puffs. “We solved this crime and busted a serial killer. It’s like Nancy Drew, George, and Bess. I want to be Nancy.”
Charlotte laughs. “You’re not. More like Bess. You’re just a sidekick.”
Rosemary blows a little smoke cloud toward the sky, then stands. “I gotta get back to the bistro. Just remember I’m around if you ever need a little spy work done, Nancy.” She winks at me.
Charlotte waves the waitress over and asks for a chocolate croissant. “I knew if I got one, Rosemary would eat half of it. Then again, you might eat half of it, but I don’t mind.”
As we eat and talk, shadows fall across our table. Charlotte glances up and I turn.
Axel stands with his employee, a petite girl who couldn’t contrast with him more. “We were having our lunch food in town and saw you,” he says. “Perhaps this is your friend?”
I nod. “Axel, this is Charlotte. Charlotte, Axel.”
Charlotte offers him one of her huge, you’re-the-only-one-in-the-world smiles. “Thank you for the flowers. I’ve never seen anything like them.”
Axel isn’t as moved as I thought he would be. Instead, he simply nods and turns to me. “You are safe? I have heard about this dead killer.”
“Yes, I’m safe. Thanks for asking.” I ramble on. “And thank you for telling me to see Miranda that day. I’m so glad I did.”
If he knows what I’m talking about, he doesn’t act like it. “I will be at the shop for a few weeks. Then I must do other business. Still you can find me there if you need me.”
He nods and abruptly strides off, the tiny woman following in his wake like the ripple behind a boat.
Charlotte laughs. “So that’s the mysterious Axel. He looks like…I don’t know. Like the perfectly engineered man or something.”
We sip our coffee and chat for another hour. All the while, I pretend like Charlotte isn’t leaving me soon.
BACK AT HOME, ANDREW just got the party started by pulling out Petey’s old karaoke machine. He cranks up The Beach Boys and pretends to surf as he sings. Thomas holds Mira Brooke, who slurps at a half-melted ice-cream cone like it’s the best thing on earth.
Thomas lays his hand on my leg. “It’s a good day. You know what? For the first time in my life, I’m looking forward to going in to work.”
“I know you are. And I’m so glad you’re happy.”
“I wouldn’t be…” He chokes up. His hand slides up to my goose egg, which seems to have grown.
I try to lighten the mood. “First a black eye from my kid, then a lump on the head from a serial killer…hard to tell what’s next.”
“I know what’s next.” Crickets whir and night birds warble as he leans over and gives me a long kiss. “We’re going to enjoy life and you’re going to stay away from trouble.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
WHEN WE FINALLY WIND down and walk back to our blissfully police-free cottage, Thomas offers to put Mira Brooke down for bed. I brew up some decaf, hoping to sit and enjoy a movie. But our home phone rings and there’s no caller I.D. Most of the people I know call me on my cell.
When I pick up, a gravelly voice on the other end says, “Mrs. Spencer?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“This is the Alderson Women’s Prison. We have a Mrs. Pearletta Vee Lilly to speak to you.”
My mother. “Yes, I’ll take the call.” I grit my teeth.
“Tessa honey, is that you?” Mom always yells into the phone like I can’t hear. And given the happy lilt in her voice, I know something has changed.
“Momma, it’s me. Why haven’t you called or written? It’s been a year!”
“Lots going on here. I been working hard. I knew you had your baby and I didn’t want to put extra pressure on you. But now I gotta tell you. I’m getting out in three months! And I’ll need a place to stay.”
So much for avoiding trouble. Once again, trouble has found me.
Cousin Nelma’s Banana Pudding
INGREDIENTS:
-3 regular or 2 large instant vanilla puddings
-5 cups milk
-1 large carton Cool Whip
-box vanilla wafers
-bunch of firm bananas
Mix pudding and milk together and then fold in one large carton Cool Whip. Layer 5 or 6 cut-up bananas with the Cool Whip mix, top with vanilla wafers. Repeat the layers. Put a layer of Cool Whip mix and vanilla wafer crumbs on top. Chill in refrigerator. Layers look amazing in a clear glass bowl.
About the Author
HEATHER DAY GILBERT, a Grace Award winner and bestselling author, writes novels that capture life in all its messy, bittersweet, hope-filled glory. Born and raised in the West Virginia mountains, generational story-telling runs in her blood. Heather writes Viking historicals and contemporary mystery/suspense. Publisher’s Weekly gave Heather’s Viking historical Forest Child a starred review, saying it is “an engaging story depicting timeless human struggles with faith, love, loyalty, and leadership.” Find out more on heatherdaygilbert.com.
You can find Heather online here:
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E-Mail: heatherdaygilbert (at) gmail (dot) com
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Read on for a sample chapter of Guilt by Association, Book 3 in A Murder in the Mountains
mystery series!
Sample
Guilt by Association
A Murder in the Mountains
Book 3
Heather Day Gilbert
Prologue
THE MOST SATISFACTION I have ever experienced as a parent was to stand behind you in your successes, to watch you reach your potential. To know that on some level, you represent your family to the world at large.
But then something shifted, and you no longer wanted to spend time with your own blood. Your wayward peers stepped in, circling you like vultures, and they carried you off with them. Suddenly, you were too far gone.
I blame myself, of course. All that psychological nonsense about letting teens set their own boundaries, all those lies about giving you space to sow your oats—I can finally see through that. But it’s too late. I have dropped the ball too many times. Now you’ve finally reappeared in our lives, but I can do nothing to protect you unless you start talking to me again.
I swear to you, I will make things right. Someday, you are going to stand again, and you are going to make us all proud.
But I will not count those blameless who have led you so very far astray.
1
“YOU SURE YOU’RE OKAY with this, Tess?” My mother-in-law, Nikki Jo, pulls a red coffee cup from her cabinet. She knows how uncomfortable I am with the latest call from my mom.
“I think so. The temp agency won’t mind if I take a day off, and if you don’t mind watching Mira Brooke…”
Nikki Jo gives her highlighted blonde layers a violent shake and pours liberal creamer into my coffee. “Never. I always have time for your girlie. Now what’s your momma need, again?”
Good question. My mom’s only been out of prison three months—it took longer for her release than she initially thought—and lately, she keeps calling me up, almost as if I need to walk her through the most basic things, like how to make fried chicken, how to use a debit card to pump gas, or how to sort laundry. I know she never was a housekeeper, and I know she’s been incarcerated for years, but it’s like she’s suffering some kind of memory loss.
Her latest request that I visit apparently stems from her attempt to buy a “real house” like mine, versus the broken-down trailer she’s still living in. A good idea, since I doubt if the ramshackle abode of my childhood can make it through many more winters.
“She mentioned something about a realtor.” I take a deep, invigorating slurp of the vanilla brew.
Nikki Jo pushes the basket of biscuits toward me, as well as a jar of her homemade peach jam. “I figure she’s kind of at loose ends, living there all by herself, don’t you?”
Nikki Jo, bless her heart, can’t possibly grasp how resourceful my mom can be. Like the time she offered to babysit the neighbors’ kids for extra income, then left them in my preteen hands for an entire two weeks so she could hit bars during the day.
I sink my teeth into the flaky biscuit, hoping my sour memories will float away. Mira Brooke squeals in the living room, where she’s playing with my brother-in-law, Petey.
“Maybe,” I mumble.
Nikki Jo leans across the table. Her hazelnut gaze flits over my face. There’s something about her brown eyes, so similar to my husband Thomas’, that seems to cut through my defenses and shine a light right into my heart.
She pats my hand. “I know you’re nervous, hon. But Thomas said Pearletta has changed.”
Whether Pearletta Vee Lilly has changed or not remains to be seen. And I really wish I didn’t have to be the one to see it.
THOMAS GETS HOME AT nine, just as I’m pulling on my PJs. Although we’d hoped his hours would be shorter with his new prosecuting attorney position, he’s actually been staying later.
He pulls off his shirt and tie, then gives me a suggestive look and flexes his tricep.
I’m too stressed to take his hottie bait. “Hon, I’m driving over to Boone to see my mom tomorrow, so I need to get some sleep. Your food’s down on the stove.”
He clasps his chest. “Shot through the heart, babe. But I might survive.” He strides over and strokes my hair out of my face. His strong hand presses into my lower back and he pulls me into a tight embrace. “You just smell so clean and fruity and delicious.” His lips close over mine and by the time he releases me, I give a little gasp.
He gives a triumphant grin. “You were saying…?”
I sigh, dropping back into reality with a thud. “I should be back late tomorrow night. Your mom will keep Mira Brooke up there, and I’m sure she’ll drop some food off for your supper. You’ll just need to feed Velvet.”
Hearing her name, our white kitty uncurls from the foot of my bed and curls around my leg expectantly.
“No problem,” he says. “And hey, guess who I saw today?” He doesn’t give me time to guess. “Detective Tucker. Or I guess you know him as Zeke.”
Thomas still can’t believe his superhero homicide detective lets me call him by his first name.
“Well, I guess if you’d helped him catch a serial killer, he might let you call him Zeke, too.”
“Very funny. And by the way, don’t be doing that again.”
“Not in my plans—for the rest of my life.”
“Good. Anyway, Zeke said you should give him a call sometime.” He heads downstairs to eat, so I snuggle under the red-and-blue star patterned quilt on our bed. Nikki Jo gave this to me—quilted by her grandmother—and every time I lie on it, I feel like I’m part of something bigger than myself. Something stable.
MY DRIVE TO BOONE GIVES me lots of time to think—too much time. As I wind through the greened-up mountains, I wish I’d loaded an audiobook to my phone. Instead, I sing my favorite hymns and mentally gear up for this meeting.
I won’t go into Mom’s trailer, since that’s the root cause of the claustrophobic issues I have to this day. We can just head right out to look at houses, I can give some input, then I can drive home.
The scenery looks the same as always. So many houses sit on the high, cleared sides of the mountains. I hold my breath every time I pass someone riding a mower along the vertical hillside of a front yard. One modern mountainside house actually has goats lounging on the driveway, soaking up some sun.
As I get closer to Mom’s, the long shadow of coal mining covers everything. Huge overhead pipes, coal tipples, and cleaning stations occur at regular intervals—some abandoned, some in use. Tops of mountains that were once scraped clean of trees for mining are now covered in low green growth. Towns are sprinkled with vacant buildings and burned-out houses.
FINALLY, THE SIGN FOR Jasper Branch Road comes into view. It has multiple bullet holes in it, like most of the road signs around here. I’ve yet to figure out how people manage to position themselves on the side of the road to aim at them, much less why no one living behind the signs has gotten hit.
I pull off the main road, my SUV rattling across a board bridge that sits astride a half-dried creek. Dead ahead is a familiar rusted gate, still emblazoned with a faded sign reading Scots’ Hollow Trailer Park.
I roll through the park, glancing around. There’s a utilitarian vibe here, probably because there are no trees to break up the rows of houses. The only trees in sight edge the back of the park, near Mom’s place. Most trailers are older, the same era as Mom’s, but many have been spruced up with flags or decorative planters.
Although I drive slowly down the dirt lane that connects the homes, I’m forced to slam on my brakes when a small boy darts in front of me as he chases a ball. I roll down my window, hoping to stop him from doing this again.
“Hey! You need to be careful! Didn’t you see me coming?”
The tow-headed child looks at me, but gives no response. Instead, he deliberately starts bouncing the neon pink ball, smacking it hard against the ground. His cheeks are dirt-smudged and his shocking blue eyes are protected by a thick line of blond lashes. His too-short shorts expose knobby knees, and he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, which is way too hot for this weather.
My childhood memories suck me under. While Mom never beat me, desperation and hopelessness are feelings I surely understand.
I soften my tone. “You be careful, okay? Take care of yourself.”
Mom’s trailer is around the next curve, so I inch toward it. In my rearview mirror, I watch the boy skitter up to a broken-down porch and drop onto the step, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.
I RAP AT MOM’S DOOR, already eager to leave. The park always seems to be shrouded in shadows, both literal and figurative.
I hear her heavy shuffling and she finally opens the flimsy door. She’s wearing a blue tank top and a loose floral skirt. “Tessa Brooke! Come on in and have yourself a sandwich before we go.”
“Thanks, Mom, but I ate a while ago. Already had coffee, too. Didn’t you say your realtor appointment was at noon?”
“More like twelve-thirty. So we have time to catch up.”
That’s the very last thing I want to do, since Mom has no chairs on the porch, which means we’d have to sit—
“Come on in,” she repeats.
“We could just stand here and talk. It’s nice out,” I lie.
“What? In this heat? Come sit on the couch. Sally gave me her couch and it’s practically new.”
Out of excuses, I take a deep breath and follow Mom inside. Most of the furniture looks the same, but she’s definitely made an effort to make the place more homey. A candle flickers on the kitchen counter and realistic silk flowers are positioned in small vases in the living room.