by Stacy Green
“I’ve got some information for you.” Cage said.
“From where?”
“Jaymee Ballard.”
“You got to be kidding me,” Charles said. “I drove that girl to work yesterday. She had all the time in the world to tell me what she knew.”
“She got the information from someone else. Doesn’t want to get them in trouble.”
“I’ll bet. What’d she tell you?”
“Royce Newton’s a special friend of a neighborhood hooker who works with wealthy clientele.”
“Crystal Harns.”
Cage’s shoulders rose in a noncommittal shrug. “Few days before Rebecca’s murder, Royce met up with her.” Cage told Charles about Royce’s cryptic conversation with Crystal.
“Those his exact words?” Charles asked. “‘Rebecca knew about the money, about Jackson. He didn’t know how he was going to get out of it?’ That Rebecca could ruin him?”
“Far as I know,” Cage said.
“Well, looks like I’ve got some new questions for Mr. Newton. Maybe he’s our killer after all.”
Nick cleared his throat. “That’s not all. Jaymee had a run-in with her father yesterday after you dropped her off at work.”
Charles’s chubby face turned a darker shade of red. “Friggin’ Paul Ballard. I’ve heard enough stories from my wife about Sonia Ballard’s strange bruises to know he’s a bastard.”
“She remembers Rebecca telling her about an altercation she had with Paul after a city council meeting shortly before she died.”
“Come on, now,” Charles said after Nick finished telling him the story. “I know she’s your friend, Cage, and I ain’t saying she’s a bad kid, but she’s not known for her relationship with her father. I remember what happened in ’06.”
He looked pointedly at Nick. “She’d been gone for a spell. Supposedly for discipline issues, although she was never in any trouble. Came back in September, I think. Couple months later, out of nowhere, she loses it in church. Her daddy’s up there on the pulpit–he’s a deacon–and she rips into him faster than a mama pig protecting her babies. Put him in the hospital with a mild heart attack. Course, she’d already headed to Jackson. Didn’t come back for a month or more.”
“That must have been when she came to Jackson and stayed with Lana,” Nick said. He wanted to tell Charles exactly why Jaymee had called her father out, but that would destroy his chances of earning her trust.
“It was,” Cage snapped. “And you know everything she said about Ballard is true.”
Charles shrugged. “Probably. But now the only member of her family to pay her any attention is her brother. So Daddy shows up at the diner, lays into her about what?”
“Arriving at work in a police car.”
“Shit.” Charles looked ashamed. “Didn’t mean for that to happen. But he no doubt chewed her up and down. She’s got to be fuming, and rightly so. Perfect chance for her to get back at him.”
“She wouldn’t do that. Jaymee cared about Rebecca.” Cage got to his feet. “So you don’t believe her?”
“I believe Crystal Harns was blowing Royce Newton. I believe he probably ran his mouth to her. But do I think Paul Ballard told our dead lady he was going to smite his enemies?” Charles pulled himself from the chair, and it puffed a loud, grateful sigh. “Maybe. Doesn’t mean he acted on it. But I’ll check with the city council people, see if they remember anything.”
Nick stood, too. “The same person who killed Rebecca Newton killed my wife.” He pointed to the baggie with the note. “That’s no coincidence, Detective.”
Charles grunted. “You show this note to the Jackson P.D.?”
“No. Cage told me about the murder here, and I headed down.”
Charles fingered the baggie, tracing the type with his jagged nail. “Typewriter, not a word processor.”
“Right.”
“I’ll send this to the state lab,” Charles said, “have them run it for fingerprints, the works. Then get them on searching for the kind of typewriter that made this letter. They can be traced a helluva lot easier than word processors. Might get lucky, match the machine, even get a serial number. That’s your best bet in finding out who sent this note.”
“And if it comes back Royce Newton owns the typewriter? Or Paul Ballard?”
Charles got the message. He stepped forward, toe-to-toe with Nick. He had a good three inches on the detective. “You’re a reporter, right? Used to getting your information?”
“Most of the time.”
“Well, this ain’t big city Jackson. This is small-town Roselea, and we got more than just a murder to think about. Politics, tourists, revenue. I got to juggle all that bullshit while I try to find out who killed that woman on the hill.”
“That’s a lot of work for one man,” Nick said.
“I can handle it, long as you two,” Charles flashed a quick glare toward Cage, “don’t get in the middle of my investigation. Let me do my job. If there’s a connection, I’ll find it.”
“Right.” Nick backed away with a shake of his head. “Jaymee remembered one more thing. When she first started working for the Newtons, she and Royce talked about Lana. He’s a family lawyer; she was a social worker. Guess they had some cases together. Royce still had his office in Jackson when Lana was murdered. In fact, he was in town.”
He stalked out of the office past the small lobby of desks and ringing telephones and into the oppressive heat. His insides boiled as he waited for Cage in the blazing sun.
Cage emerged from the station and quickly donned his sunglasses. “He’s sending the note to the crime lab.”
Nick’s gray T-shirt already clung to his back, tacky with sweat. “Charles is in over his head.”
“He’s a good cop. He’ll see through the bullshit.”
“Should I be worried about Jaymee?” The words dropped between the two of them.
Cage stared at him over the top of the car, his expression frozen into a stoic mask. “She’ll know how to handle Royce.”
“Not what I meant.”
Cage got in the car. Nick followed. “Charles telling the truth? Did she do that in church?”
“Yeah. Right before she headed to Jackson and told Lana about the adoption.” Cage turned the air conditioner on high. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “You have to understand, the one damned person she thought she could count on ruined her life, took away everything innocent and happy about Jaymee. She was alone, drifting. Hiding. Meanwhile Paul stands up in front the congregation like he’s a Goddamned saint. She couldn’t take it anymore.”
The pit of Nick’s stomach hollowed. “Sexual abuse.”
Cage closed his eyes. “Not from Ballard. It’s not that simple.” He leveled a glare at Nick. “And not my story to tell. That part isn’t relevant to Lana’s murder, or Rebecca’s.” He made an illegal U-turn. “Taking you back to Annabelle’s. I’ve got to get to work.”
Nick kept his gaze out the window. Cage might be finished, but he wasn’t. There was more to the adoption story, and someone was going to tell him. Solving Lana’s murder depended on him knowing the full truth.
10
Stiff backed and self-conscious, Jaymee sat quietly in the passenger seat of Nick’s car. The leather seats were cool from the blasting air conditioning, and the smell of fake fresh pine filled the small space. Her eyes flickered to Nick. He’d picked her up with a brief hello, sounding as though he were miles away. She had no idea what to say.
“Lana talked about you a lot.” Nick broke the loud silence.
Her throat stung. “She was a good friend.”
Nick’s posture was only slightly more relaxed than hers, his eyes focused on the winding road. His hands, slender but strong, gripped the steering wheel.
“How’d you two become friends?”
“Cage and I are the same age. Lana used to be stuck babysitting us, even though she was just a couple of years older.”
Nick face was still as a rubber mask
except for the tiny tick at the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips and then pressed them tightly together.
Jaymee uncrossed her legs and then re-crossed them. She tapped her fingers on her knee. What did he want to ask her?
“Detective Charles said some things about you.”
Damn. “Did he?”
“He’s pissed you didn’t tell him what Crystal said.”
“He’ll get over it.”
Sun blared into the tinted window, and Jaymee wished she hadn’t lost her cheap sunglasses. An icy shiver snaked up her spine. Where were her sunglasses? She hadn’t thought to ask Charles if they’d been found. Maybe she’d mention them to Royce.
She snapped her visor down, wiping her watering eyes.
“He didn’t believe your dad threatened Rebecca.”
Jaymee’s fingers lingered on her cheek pressing into the flesh until she felt bone. “What?”
They entered the historic section of town, the homes getting bigger and older, all trying to outshine one another. Stately Greek columns, gazebos, and towering turrets demanded attention. Hordes of multicolored rose bushes flashed by.
“He didn’t have much good to say about your father. Thought you might have been trying to get revenge on him by getting him in trouble.”
“Is that all?”
“No. He said you’ve done this before. Gone after your father. Publicly.”
Jaymee swallowed the fit brewing on her tongue. “Turn left onto Rosaire. Drive until you see the gates. You won’t be able to miss it.”
She tried to focus on Royce. They were here to pay their respects–once they got past Fat Jonas.
“You going to say anything else?” Nick’s cautious tone had a sharp edge.
“I can’t make Charles believe me.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Frustration snapped her resolve. She twisted around to face Nick. “Then what are you talking about, Mr. Big-City Reporter?”
“Charles said you pitched a fit in church and nearly gave your father a heart attack.”
“I did give that self-righteous bastard a heart attack. Did Charles tell you anything more? Like what I actually said?”
“No.”
“Of course he didn’t. Paul was giving a speech about family values, how your kin are the most important thing.” The anger she carried around burst out of her. “Seriously? The man beat his wife and treated me like I was a walking sin. Only family member he ever loved was my brother, and he did a piss-poor job of raising him, too. Yet he’s up on the pulpit, running off at the mouth to his righteous followers about family. After everything…”
A knife might as well have caught her in the throat. She pressed her fist over her mouth and took a deep breath through her nose.
“Jaymee, I didn’t mean–”
“No, let me finish.” She heard the tears in her voice and forced them down her aching throat. “After everything he put me through, he preaches family? I’d heard enough. I called him out like my mother should have done years before.”
Nick sighed. Not the exasperated kind most men let loose when a woman is crying and they have no idea what to say, but a deep, broken gust of heartache. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you went through.”
“No, you can’t.” She silently begged for Nick to drop the subject. She didn’t want to tell him any more than she already had.
“And I wouldn’t blame you for seeking revenge on your father. He deserves it.” The stoplight at the corner of Rosaire Drive and Long Street turned yellow. Nick eased to a stop.
How dare he? Did he honestly think she would stoop so low as to use Rebecca’s murder to get back at her father? Furious, she twisted in the leather seat until she faced him. “What are you getting at?”
“Just saying I would understand.” Nick’s eyes shined with compassion and something that looked a lot like understanding. Her heart thumped erratically. Nick’s lack of judgment threw her out of sync.
An angry car horn jumpstarted her brain. Nick glared in the rearview mirror and hit the gas.
“I get what you’re saying,” Jaymee said. “And I promise, I wouldn’t take advantage of Rebecca and Lana like that.”
“All right, then.”
Rosaire Drive cut sharply to the left, and Evaline Hall emerged. The grand home that had once been a safe haven for Jaymee looked lost and pale despite the brilliant colors in its numerous flowerbeds. Clouds hovered high over the house casting the mansion in shadow, as though the weather knew something terrible had occurred behind its brick walls.
“Wow.” Nick guided the car up a winding drive shielded by a canopy of oaks, leaning forward until his chin grazed the steering wheel. “It’s like something out of North and South.”
“Yeah, she’s something.” Jaymee gazed up at Evaline. A salty tear splashed on her lips. “Rebecca loved this place. It sat empty and falling apart when I was a kid. One of the few homes on Rosaire that hadn’t been touched. The city tried to keep it up–then the historical society–but it was the Newtons who truly restored it to its former glory. Whatever their story is, Royce and Rebecca did right by this house.”
Nick’s hand gently rested on top of hers, fingertips barely touching. A quivering jolt soared through her.
“I know this is hard. If you can’t do it, I’ll understand.”
Her skin heated the moment she met his gaze. He might want to understand, but the intensity in his eyes called his bluff. He needed to talk to Royce Newton, and he needed her help.
“I can do it.”
Nick moved his hand off hers, letting it rest on the gearshift. “Tell me about this place.”
“Henri Laurent was one of Roselea’s first settlers. He was a member of the Mississippi Legislature. Built this place for his wife, Evaline.”
“And it’s a showplace now?”
“Yep. Very popular with the tourists. Royce wanted to make it a B&B, but Rebecca didn’t want strangers sleeping in her home.”
“Can’t say I blame her. B&B’s creep me out, but Annabelle’s was the only place with openings.”
“Do you have a plan here? If Royce did kill Rebecca, he’s not going to share that with you. What can you find out that the Roselea cops couldn’t?”
He grinned. His lower lip was a bit thicker than the top, and he had a tiny scar above the right side of his mouth. “Just follow my lead.”
They exited the car, and Jaymee walked ahead of Nick, forcing her leaden legs up the brick steps. She trailed her fingers over the wrought iron railing. How she’d once loved this place. Evaline’s main entrance showed off a set of oak doors with stained glass windows, their red and chocolate brown colors casting dark prisms onto the columns. The massive porch wrapped around the entire lower level of the house, and planters of flowering pink azaleas and ruby-red begonias hung along the porch’s outer edge. An old-fashioned glider rested to the left of the door. Next to it sat a glass table decorated with an enormous planter of white chrysanthemums.
Jaymee touched the delicate blossoms. “Funeral flowers.”
Nick cleared his throat. “When’s the service?”
“Paper said Friday.”
Jaymee squared her shoulders and knocked on the door. While they waited, a blue jay whipped onto the feeder hanging from the corner, dived for a bite, and then took off. The western sky shimmered in a haze of sunshine, but darker clouds had crept into the horizon and over the house. A hot breeze blew through the porch rattling the hanging pots.
The door opened. Fat Jonas leaned against the oak, gut straining against his navy polo shirt. Sweat glistened in his neck rolls and his bushy eyebrows caterpillered across his forehead. His narrow upper lip twitched into a sneer, his face morphing into the same expression of mild disgust he always wore in Jaymee’s presence.
“Shoulda known you’d show up.”
Jaymee didn’t flinch. “Hello, Jonas. I’ve come to pay my respects to Mr. Royce.”
His eyebrow unfurled eno
ugh to hike up his high forehead. “He’s with someone. I’ll tell him you called.”
“We’ll wait.”
“There’s no need. He’s only receiving counsel from Reverend Gereau and taking no other visitors.”
Jaymee flinched before she could stop herself. She hadn’t noticed a car in the drive; Gereau’s must have been parked near the private entrance. Her toes curled in her worn shoes. She longed to shove Fat Jonas aside, rush into Royce’s office, and demand the truth from him and Gereau. She spoke with as much sweetness as she could muster. “Jonas, please. I’m sure you know I found her.”
“Yes. Why Miss Rebecca was so taken with you, I’ll never understand.”
Jaymee’s brain managed to squash her pride before it caused her to say anything stupid. She wasn’t going to get anywhere with Jonas by pissing him off. He’d never had the balls to say anything to her when she cleaned because Rebecca was always around to shoo him off.
She worked to keep her voice modulated and sweet just like a gentle southern girl was supposed to sound. “But I think Mr. Royce would want to see me.” She gestured to Nick standing silently behind her. “And Nick is Lana Foster’s husband. He’d like to pay his respects as well.”
Jonas ran a stubby hand over his double chins. “What are you doing in Roselea?” He directed his question at Nick.
“I’m in town visiting Lana’s family,” Nick answered. “I don’t have to tell you I know the pain of losing a spouse. I’d really like to extend Mr. Royce my sympathies. He knew my wife, of course.”
As Jonas studied Nick, Jaymee had no doubt he was wondering what a gentleman like Nick was doing here with a loser like her. As if Jonas had any room to talk. He grew up outside of town in one of the old plantations still clinging to life and falling down around the family. Rumor was the home hadn’t even had modern plumbing. Yet here he was, acting as though he ruled over Evaline when he was no more than an employee, just like Jaymee. She bit her tongue.
“This might be in poor taste,” Nick spoke again. He stood close now, close enough for Jaymee to smell his aftershave and feel the heat from his chest against her back. “I’m writing a book on haunted antebellum homes, and I’d intended to interview Miss Rebecca about her experiences here at Evaline. I’m sure Mr. Royce isn’t up to it right now, but if we could set something up, I’d much appreciate it.”