“You set a nice welcoming stage.”
“Can you handle it?”
“Yes.” Her hands tightened around the gift Bible. “Actually, I can. I want some dinner, then I’m going to explore the guesthouse and try on clothes. Will it be a problem if I walk over to the barn later?”
“Take Marco, and a bunch of carrots or apples,” he recommended. “The painted pinto is Marco’s favorite. Three cats hang around the barn, so if you see unexpected motion, it’s likely one of them.
“Security on the property already has your name and photo. Mike is on duty tonight; his photo and particulars are in the binder on your kitchen counter. You’ll also find keys to the gym there, and a Tate courtesy card. Show the card at any business on the island rather than spend down your cash. It will be honored just like any major credit card would be. Ferry trips, meals, shopping—your stay is covered, Janelle.”
“Someone is being very generous.”
“They aren’t afraid you’ll take advantage of the offer—they’re afraid you won’t use it. Seriously, the financing of the next six months shouldn’t be part of your concerns. You’ll never see a bill. Settle in, deal with life, then turn and look at the future you want. There’s time to think it all through.”
“Okay.” She turned to the office door. “It’s a nice room, but I think you’re right. I’m going to be fine with never seeing it again.”
He laughed. “Thank you. I prefer our conversations happen elsewhere too.”
Greg followed Janelle out and then shut off the lights, feeling mostly relief. He was ready to find Ann and get some dinner himself, then deal with the fact he still had about four hours of work ahead of him.
Ann would be giving him a crash course through the case file tonight. It was easy to sympathize with Janelle at the moment. He was about to face an information waterfall of his own. He’d likely feel as if the info was leaking out of his brain too before Ann was done.
nine
THE NEXT DAY, Greg watched from the kitchen doorway as Janelle neatly tucked pie dough in a glass pie plate, filled it with sliced apples and cinnamon sugar, dotted it with butter, latticed the top dough, fluted the edges—practiced hands doing what her brain directed while he very much doubted her thoughts were anywhere near her pie making. She was the picture of a woman lost in thought—either unaware she’d had company join her, which was unlikely, or she was determined not to react as she would have in prison. She wore a flowered shirt and light-blue slacks, and her expression was peaceful. She pulled a second pie plate over.
“An interesting choice for your first morning,” he noted, circling the counter.
She glanced over. “I thought I’d send a pie home with Ann to share with Paul, and since I’m making them one, I decided I’d make you one too.” She neatly set in the rolled dough. “I thought I might have lost my touch. We’ll see.”
He laughed. “I’ll be glad to judge the outcome.”
“Your kitchen made more sense than the guesthouse. Plus I need to talk to Ann while these bake.”
“My kitchen is yours. Especially when it serves up an apple pie.” He opened the refrigerator to check out snack options. He’d been on the beach for a swim at dawn, and his appetite spiked midmorning.
“Would you prefer cherry?”
His groan was theatrical. “You’re killing me here, Janelle. But apple beats out cherry by, say, two whiskers.”
“Then I’ll make you both.”
He picked out a cluster of washed white grapes. “Start with one, next week another. It can be like food therapy. You bake, I help you eat.”
“All right.”
“Sleep okay?”
She shrugged. “So-so, but that’s fine. Too much quiet, too soft a bed, too much to think about. Those hours—it was the best night of ‘not sleeping’ I’ve had in years.”
He smiled at her phrasing, the doctor in him glad to see she was already beginning to thrive. A few days like this would help temper the inevitably hard days ahead.
He had interesting guests every year, but it had been a while since he’d had a naturally inclined baker around. “The grocery list is on the side of the refrigerator. Fill it in with whatever I’m missing that you need.”
“What are the odds I can get decent chocolate on this island?”
He ate more of the grapes, tapped his finger on his shirt. “Pilot. I’ll fly it in. Just be specific and print so I can read your handwriting.”
She grinned. “This could come in handy.”
“As long as you’re willing to share your creations, you’ve got a willing gofer.” Ann joined them, and Greg beamed at her. “We’re getting pies, thanks to you, so nice goin’. Weather still holding?”
“If I take off before two o’clock, I should be in the clear. And my pie is getting its own seat on the flight home. Paul is going to love homemade dessert tonight.” She helped herself to some of his grapes. “We’re going to hit the shops after the pies come out of the oven, look for swimsuits and other things. You want to come with us?”
“Shopping? No thanks. I’m taking Marco for a swim in place of his bath. He’ll semi-tolerate the freshwater shower afterwards.” He glanced around. “Where is he, by the way?”
“I gave him the ham bone,” Janelle answered. “It was small, he was pleading, so I hope that was okay. He grabbed it and vanished toward the barn.”
“He can have whatever he can mooch. We’re having ham?”
“Scalloped potatoes, ham, corn casserole, and fresh rolls. I want my own home-cooked meal, and I thought I’d make enough to share. A pie deserves a first course.”
“I’m already enjoying it just hearing the menu.” The three laughed, and Ann tugged at his sleeve.
“I’ll get him out of your hair for twenty minutes, Janelle,” she said, “while you finish up here. Come on, Greg. We need to take a walk and figure out a strategy for the news media.”
“I want to avoid any news for now,” Janelle offered at his questioning glance, “and all comments, please, from your friends who might recognize my name.”
“Got it. I’d want the same,” he reassured her. He worked hard to give his guests anonymity when they needed it, and his employees and friends honored that request.
At Ann’s nudge they left Janelle to complete work on the pies. He slipped on his sunglasses as they headed outside. “She’s in the kitchen on her first morning. I am going to be a well-fed man,” he commented. “Good for her and good for me.” He turned to Ann. “What’s the real topic?”
“Tanya learned about the pardon late yesterday afternoon. She’s quoted in a breaking-news article on the Chicago Tribune website as pleased her friend has been cleared of this crime, and she hopes law enforcement will be able to use the newly discovered evidence to locate and arrest the man who robbed and murdered her brother.”
“She’s telling the same story Janelle believes. That’s intriguing on quite a few levels.”
“Paul put out a statement that the FBI requested the pardon based on further evidence, and that the matter of Andrew Chadwick’s death was now an active investigation by state and federal authorities. Nothing is out there yet regarding what the new evidence is, and we’ll try to keep it that way.”
“Tanya’s going to be frantic for information.”
Ann nodded. “I’ve been tracking some of those moves already. She’s reached out to Janelle’s trial attorney, the governor’s office, and she tried to reach the pardon attorney. We can assume that Tanya’s also been contacting mutual friends of Janelle, looking for information on where she might be. No one has that answer, and as long as Janelle herself doesn’t call anyone, there won’t be.”
“How well disguised was your flight here?”
“I played some sleight of hand. A good reporter may put the dots together as far as Kentucky. But it would take a great reporter to figure out the redirect past there.”
“You do like your skullduggery, Ann.” He couldn’t help but chuckle.<
br />
She shrugged. “I’ve been doing this a long time. You can try to stay dark, but that only causes people to dig harder. It’s better to let people think they’ve found the answer. Once you discover the plane I’m flying and the airport I flew out of, you pull the flight plan. Except—oops—I filed a flight plan for Pennsylvania and didn’t amend it until I was ready to take off. The amended flight plan, being verbal, was entered real time, which puts it in another system. Most reporters will stop at the flight plan. A smart reporter asks if there’s an amended flight plan. That inquiry would get back a more limited entry, but enough to know my destination airport. So a reporter asking for an amended flight plan will be heading for Kentucky right now.”
Greg followed her logic through and started laughing. “You called from the air with a change of plans, verbally filing a second amended flight plan?”
Ann grinned. “Every time I switched air-traffic-control grids, I was talking to a new region and verbally filed an amended flight plan. All routine entries that happen every day. But only a pilot would think to unravel my flight by checking each region. And since I was being paranoid, I touched down briefly at two of the amended airports, so the question remains as to where I actually dropped my passenger.”
“Your flight here is well covered,” he agreed. “What about the flight home?”
“The owner would like his plane left in Indiana. I’ll borrow another plane for the last leg into Chicago. I’ll amend flight plans for each leg of the trip to obscure it further.”
“Okay, if Janelle gets ‘found,’ it’ll be because she calls someone, gives out that information herself, or someone on the island recognizes her from news about the pardon and gets chatty about it on social media.”
“Pretty much. I’ll teach her the basics of looking different before we go shopping today, and I predict she’ll be a quick study. It’s amazing what a hat, sunglasses, and a change in hairstyle can do. She won’t look like Janelle to the casual glance. All the media has is a nearly seven-year-old photo from the trial. A few days in the sun adding a tan, and the comparison will move even further apart.”
“We’ll leave it unsaid, but the fallback is always a flight out of here with either you or me, and Janelle gets tucked somewhere in Arizona or Nevada under a different name.”
“A very good point, Greg. And a sign I’m reaching my own saturation point, as I should have mentioned that myself.”
“You’ve been pressing hard for quite a few days. Right now it’s a matter of simply watching what Tanya does and what reporters might figure out. Janelle needs some breathing room. We’re not going to bring up the case details until she starts asking questions, so there’s time to let this sit and settle.”
“Paul’s made some calls. We’ll know if Tanya travels.”
“Good. A guilty person reacts when it looks like their cover story is falling apart. You’ll get some useful data out of Tanya’s behavior over the next few days.”
“I hope we do.” Ann considered him. “I feel like I owe you an apology for asking a favor that’s rapidly growing in complexity and the time it’s going to demand. I’m about to head back to Illinois, leaving you on the front line.”
Greg smiled. “I’ll enjoy working with Janelle. So, anything else we need to discuss before your departure flight? She’ll likely want to come to the airport to see you off. This is the last point before we officially transition her from being your concern to mine.”
“My list is now clear.”
“Mine too,” Greg decided.
They had circled back to the house, and as Ann opened the door, Greg smelled the baking pies. He shared with Janelle the experience of prison, and he knew one of the best realities that came with the return of freedom was good food. He envisioned they’d be bonding over meals in the coming days, and there was certainly no hardship in that thought.
ten
GREG SWATTED AT A PERSISTENT FLY, mildly regretting not using bug spray before they left the house. Janelle nudged her Appaloosa alongside his mount as they approached the barn. “I’m thinking fish chowder and stuffed mushrooms. There are steaks thawed out, but maybe we grill those tomorrow evening, go hot spice and Southern sweet on the glaze, and serve them alongside twice-baked potatoes.”
Greg resettled his cowboy hat, his leather gloves workman worn. “If you’re asking my opinion, I like the sound of all of it. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—it’s nice having a real-life chef in residence.”
“It’s hard to beat the variety I’ve got to work with. The fish are so fresh they’re often still flopping around on delivery.”
Greg was grateful they had found her primary stress-relief outlet on the first day—Janelle loved to cook—because she was now a bundle of nerves, her body reacting as he had predicted it would. She jumped at everything that startled her, and occasionally even her own shadow. She was mostly handling the overreactions with good humor, taking his word that the jitters would one day fade just as rapidly as they had appeared. The fact she was decompressing so quickly told him she fundamentally felt safe again. It was progress . . . good progress.
She’d been hanging out in his kitchen, flipping through cookbooks, enjoying herself and, in her words, finding it useful to have someone around who liked to eat. He’d been introducing her to employees who stopped by to talk ferry business or restaurant matters. She liked small talk and enjoyed having a game of checkers going on the counter.
She was looking and feeling alive again. Greg could see and hear the transformation happening. He was content to give her more room than she knew what to do with, to decide if and when she wanted to talk about what happened. So far she wasn’t going there, and that was fine with him. She’d commented a few times about prison life, but he wasn’t yet asking the follow-up questions that would take her there in detail.
Janelle’s arrival hadn’t really changed his own plans. For all practical purposes, he was still on vacation for the holidays. Today had started with an early swim, a bike ride, and moved into the afternoon with a two-hour wander on horseback. Janelle had chosen to come along for the afternoon ride.
Greg swung off his horse and held out a hand for her reins. She liked being around the horses and his dog—they were providing another good stress-relief outlet for her. She dismounted and followed him into the barn to help brush the horses.
Back at the main house, he picked up a book to read while Janelle retreated to the kitchen. They were in the habit of eating leisurely meals on the patio, not on any particular schedule. An hour later, he was enjoying fish chowder and stuffed mushrooms. Both were incredibly good. “Thanks. I love these.”
“My pleasure.”
Janelle neatly crossed her fork and knife on her plate after she finished her last mushroom. “Tomorrow I want to talk about the pardon and what happened to Andrew.”
When the topic hadn’t come up by day three, he’d figured it would be into the month of January before she asked. Greg reached for his glass of iced tea, leaned back in his chair. “Okay. Interesting timing. Any particular reason?”
She tried to make it a casual shrug, but he could tell her nerves were rippling. “I hear the details, I think about them. Then Christmas gives me a day to think about something else. The calendar steps on any impulse to brood.”
He thoughtfully nodded. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, then.”
She picked up her spoon and turned her attention to the custard she’d made for dessert. “I’m not going to like what I hear,” she said, testing for his reaction.
He was careful with his words, but truthful, knowing with the question she was beginning to sort out what working with him would be like. “You’ve handled worse things than the truth that set you free,” he remarked. “They found your pink pocketknife, Janelle. Ann happened upon it at an auction in a box of miscellaneous dresser-drawer items.”
Surprise stilled her hand. “Finding my knife set me free?”
“Yes, and the dominoes t
hat fell from locating it.” That one fact was enough for now. He nodded to the paper beside her plate. “Have you narrowed down the movie for tonight?” Which one in his DVD collection would fit her mood on a given evening was always an open question.
She let him change the subject and scanned her list. “Would you mind a sci-fi movie?”
“I only keep movies I like. Which one strikes your fancy tonight?”
“The Martian.”
“Both long and good. I’ll have an excuse to open the caramel-corn tin.”
She rose to gather the plates, then stopped. “Can I ask you something?”
“Ask.”
“All this—the last several days—how much of it is normal you, and how much of it is you being nice?”
He didn’t answer her for a long moment, then half smiled. “You’re constantly surprising me, Janelle. I’m simply enjoying your company for the most part. I do accommodate myself to people—it’s a necessary piece of hosting ever-changing clients, all of whom arrive in traumatic seasons of their lives. You haven’t needed much accommodation on my part, which is really weird in a way. You don’t smoke, swear, criticize, or even show a down mood very often. If anything, the prison stay didn’t touch your character as it should have, and when basic predictions are upended, it’s a highly interesting mystery to my professional side.”
She flushed faintly. “I was God-conscious, I think. I was aware that Jesus was with me, literally. So what I said was always circumspect; I mostly kept my mouth shut. What were you expecting?”
“Moody, withdrawn, not sleeping, flashes of temper, frustration—the darker side of the color palette as your emotions are finally free to deal with the fact you endured prison for something you didn’t do.”
The Cost of Betrayal Page 9