by Marta Perry
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.
CHAPTER FIVE
“THANK YOU, MR. FROST.” Jessica held out her hand to the elderly attorney. “I really appreciate your sharing your expertise with me.
” Her interview with Frost had been helpful, and he’d been cooperative. Because of the Morgan connection with the case? Maybe, but she still appreciated it.
Gray eyes twinkled behind wire-rimmed glasses. “For a small-town fuddy-duddy, you mean.”
Was her embarrassment showing? That had been exactly the impression she’d had when she’d entered an office that looked as if it hadn’t changed since the 1930s and met the white-haired, stooped gentleman who’d risen from his rolltop desk at her approach. It had only taken a few minutes of conversation to realize how wrong she was.
“You’re as up-to-date as I am, and you have years more experience, as well. I’m surprised you’re not defending Thomas yourself.” An unpleasant thought occurred to her. “Is it because you’re convinced he’s guilty?”
Frost shook his head. “Even if I did, I’d still think he deserved a fair trial, unlike some people I could name, such as our esteemed district attorney.”
He sent an annoyed glance toward the newspaper lying on the corner of his desk. She’d already seen it. It contained a front-page interview with the district attorney, who seemed, by the way he spoke, to have Thomas already convicted and on his way to the state penitentiary.
“Is he usually that—” she considered several words and eliminated them “—outspoken?”
“Preston Connelly is ambitious. A case like this has already drawn regional attention. He’ll make the most of it, I’m sure.”
“Does that mean it would hurt your practice if you took on the case?” That would be a very good reason for bringing in an outsider.
“No, I’m stepping aside on doctor’s orders.” Frost patted his chest. “The old ticker’s been acting up a bit. Oh, I’m fine for routine jobs, but I’m afraid a high-profile murder case is too much.”
“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Don’t look so mournful.” He chuckled. “I’m not going to drop dead yet, but I am in the midst of retiring. Still, if you need any help, you can come to me. Strictly in confidence. Henderson, Dawes and Henderson don’t have to know a thing about it.”
“Thanks. I just might take you up on that.” Somewhat to her surprise, she realized she meant it. It wasn’t in her nature to trust easily, but Leo Frost’s integrity seemed to shine through everything he said.
She walked out of his office smiling, and there was Trey, waiting for her. Her smile faded, and she went toward him with a sense of inevitability. Of course he would show up. Just as well. Before much more time passed, she was going to confront him about what he’d been holding back.
He stood, laying aside the well-thumbed magazine he’d been looking at.
She lifted her eyebrows. “A little late, aren’t you? I expected you to be lying in wait the minute I arrived in town.”
“I had…something else to do this morning.” His normally pleasant expression went somber, and she thought she saw pain in his eyes. Before she could react, the impression was gone. “How did your meeting with Leo go?” he asked.
“Fine.” She wanted to confront him, but she could hardly do that here, with Frost’s elderly secretary pretending to look through a file while she listened to every word. “He’s meeting me at the jail at one o’clock to talk with Thomas.”
“Good.” His tone was brisk, as if whatever bothered him had been swept away. “What are you going to do until then?”
“I have a reservation at Willow Brook Motel in Springville, since I’ll be staying until after the arraignment, probably longer. I may as well go check in.”
She caught an expression of distaste on his face. Was he really that bothered by her presence? “Something wrong?”
He shrugged. “Not if you like faux Pennsylvania Dutch tourist traps. You might be more comfortable at one of the local bed-and-breakfasts, or at the Springville Inn.”
Was that really all that was behind his reaction? She couldn’t trust anything he said, knowing he’d already lied to her once.
“I’ll be fine. After all, I’m here on business, not a vacation.”
They had reached the ground floor of the building, and Trey continued walking with her down the hall toward the parking lot in the rear where she’d left her car. They were alone, doors closed on both sides of them. This might be the best chance she’d have to confront him.
“Tell me something,” she said abruptly.
He halted, looking down at her with a quizzical expression. “What?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you own the barn where Cherry Wilson was found dead?”
If she expected an explosion in return, she didn’t get it. Trey simply looked blank for a moment.
“Didn’t I?” He frowned. “Maybe I didn’t. I suppose I didn’t think it that important.”
“Not important that the murder happened in your barn? Do you really expect me to buy that?”
His face hardened at her tone. “I’m not sure what to expect from you, Counselor. But that happens to be the truth. And it’s not exactly ‘our’ barn. Our barn is the one behind our house.”
“But you own it. The police had to have questioned you about that.”
“They did.” He bit off the words. “I didn’t even realize the crime happened on a piece of land our corporation owns until they brought it up. I told them just what I’m telling you. The barn where Cherry was found is on an abandoned farm my father bought years ago, miles from our place. Anyone could have had access to it.”
“That person would have to know it was there, and that he could get in.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Meaning Thomas? That’s what the police think, I suppose. But almost anyone in the township might know as much. Country people are aware of things like that.”
“You said it was abandoned. Doesn’t anyone use it?” Her suspicions couldn’t be allayed that easily.
“No one, much of the time. A neighboring farmer sometimes uses it for storage, but I don’t think he has anything in it right now.”
“So you just let it sit there.”
“Believe it or not, we do. The land is too cut up to be good farmland, but eventually it may be ripe for development. Look, this is not really that unusual, no matter how it might seem to you. That land is one small parcel out of hundreds of acres Morgan Enterprises owns in the county. A large part of our business is involved in real estate. I don’t necessarily know the details of every parcel. Naturally I looked it up, once the police told me.”
“I see.” Did that make sense? She supposed so. It would be like expecting her father to know instantly the status of every investment in his portfolio, she’d guess. “Does your mother know?”
“I didn’t tell her. It would just make her feel more responsible.”
“She might easily find it out. It’s been in at least one of the newspaper reports.”
“If and when she does, I’ll deal with it.” He started walking. “Look, I’m not going to keep trying to convince you. Either you accept my word or not.”
She trailed after him to the door, fighting with herself. She wanted to believe him, and the strength of that feeling dismayed her. Trey hadn’t given her much of a reason to trust him.
He held the door for her, and she went through it without speaking. She took a few steps and stopped dead.
“My car…” It sank to the pavement, both tires flat on the side facing her. Anger flickered through her. She hurried to the car, circling it. Not just two. All four tires were flat.
Her breath caught. A knife stuck out of the front tire on the driver’s side, piercing a piece of paper.
Trey grasped her arm, the warmth and strength of his hand penetrating the sleeve of her jacket. “Wait. Let me take a look.”
She shook herself free, bending to read what was scrawled on the paper. Go back where you belong. The words were followed by an ugly obscenity.
She started to reach for it, but Trey caught her hand, holding it as firmly as he’d gripped her arm. A wave of warmth went through her. She wanted to
lean on him, to rely on him. But she couldn’t, because he might be the very person responsible for this.
THE POLICE HAD COME, had taken statements and photographs, and gone again. Trey leaned against his truck, watching Jessica, who in turn watched the garage mechanic now circling her car, shaking his head and clucking softly.
Jessica had surprised him a little by her seeming reluctance to call the police at their discovery. He’d done it for her, and she hadn’t liked that, either. Face it, she wasn’t going to like anything he did.
He pushed himself away from the truck, feeling a little reluctance of his own. This situation was spinning rapidly out of control. Despite the ugly crowd at the jail, he hadn’t expected outright vandalism, and the sight of that knife sticking out of the tire had twisted his stomach.
Jessica had turned to him in her shock and distress—for about half a second. Then she’d pulled away, determined to stand on her own. An admirable quality, he supposed, but in this case…well, he wasn’t sure what he thought.
The destructive act had sickened him, but looking at it in a hardheaded way, it could get him what he wanted. It could make Jessica think twice about this case.
He approached, noticing the way her shoulders stiffened as he neared. “I’ll drive you to the jail. You’ll be late if you wait until they get the tires on.”
She gave him a wary look that seemed to put him at a distance. “It might be better if I stayed with my car. Apparently it’s not safe in your municipal lot.”
“Not ‘my’ lot,” he said mildly. “Hey, Tom.” He raised his voice. “How long is this going to take?”
Tom, owner of Tom’s Garage, shoved his ball cap back and scratched his head. “I got Tom Junior bringing the tires over now. Shouldn’t be more’n an hour, I’d say.” His round, mild face puckered into a frown. “Nasty business. Gives the town a bad name, somethin’ like that.”
“It does,” he agreed. That was the attitude he hoped for from folks around here. “I need to take Ms. Langdon over to the jail on King Street for a meeting. You mind dropping the car over there when you’re done?”
