Murder in Plain Sight

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.”