Love In Plain Sight

by Jeanie London

  Because this was between us.

  He didn’t have to say that, either. Everything about him looked hurt and angry, from his tone to the way he shoved his hands inside his jacket pockets.

  “Is anything ever going to be real with you?” he asked. “Or are you going to keep blowing me off.”

  What could be more real than hanging my art on the Venue walls? I wasn’t blowing him off, but I understood why he felt that way. “You don’t know what’s at stake, Kyle.”

  “I would if you would tell me instead of making this some big freaking drama.”

  I stepped away, not so much stung by his words, but by his anger. There was no way he could understand. But bringing him home would risk all Debbie’s efforts. She had set up everything because I needed an adult to sign off on even the simplest things. She had sacrificed everything for me, even made her own funeral arrangements. Cremation. No service. No death notice. She passed from this life with no one but me to notice, so I could still live in the apartment, access her checking account, spend all the checks she had signed in advance.

  Someone would eventually realize she had died, of course, but she had hoped that wouldn’t happen until after I had reached majority and could go to school.

  That was the plan.

  And if I didn’t get an education, how was I ever going to make enough money to get to Colombia and find Mama and Paolo and bring them back here?

  What if I wound up in foster care again? I would be dragged back to Louisiana.

  Away from Kyle.

  “Kyle, please.” My voice broke. “You must trust me.”

  Which was the stupidest thing in the world I could have asked for. I wouldn’t trust him, but I wanted him to trust me.

  The bus hissed in the distance, jolting both of us, saving me from asking for anything else stupid, and him from another angry reply. From things we would regret later.

  “Oh, look, it’s your bus.” He fixed his gaze on the approaching vehicle and wouldn’t look at me.

  The bus ground to a stop. The doors rushed open.

  “Kyle, I—”

  But he was already walking away. And I had never felt so alone. I climbed onto that bus, tears blinding me as I slid my pass through the scanner and sat down.

  I saw him passing under a streetlamp as the bus drove off. And my sobs almost choked me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MARC REALIZED THEY needed a new plan. Unless Courtney lucked out and drove past a street artist fitting Araceli’s description, they would drive around Nashville all day and not learn one damned thing. Of course he couldn’t walk the streets asking questions, so they had a problem.

  “What do you want to do?” she asked.

  Yesterday, after they’d checked into the hotel, they’d taken the time to research what they needed to know about Nashville street performers. Since there had still been some daylight, they’d ventured out.

  No girl fitting Araceli’s description had been on the streets last night then, either.

  “I was hoping we’d have some luck,” he admitted.

  “Probably not the best day for street artists. At least until the weather clears.”

  He hadn’t considered that. He should have. Wasn’t rocket science to realize someone who drew pictures wouldn’t want to get caught in the rain. But he was distracted today. Exhausted from yesterday’s flight and disturbed by his revelations.

  Accountability for his actions bit, particularly as it meant Nic had a point about the pity party. Never fun admitting his big brother might be right and that Marc deserved an ass-kicking. But pity wasn’t the problem. Anger was. He’d had a shitty attitude since the accident. Not because of the accident—he took risks. Bringing in a skip wasn’t the same as tracking down a kid. The anger was all about being forced to stay put when he wanted to keep running.

  But what in hell was he running from? His family?

  That didn’t make any sense. Pains in the asses though they could be, they were still his family. He wouldn’t keep in touch or come home to visit if he didn’t want to.

  So what was with all this anger?

  “I’ve got to clear away the smoke.” From his head and from Debbie Abercrombie’s whereabouts. “We need our next break. We need to find out who ran up the medical bills.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Courtney said. “What do we do?”

  “I’ve got a guy digging. He can get into places most people can’t.” Or wouldn’t risk getting into. That, too. “If there’s anything, he’ll find it. It’s going to take time.”

  She didn’t look reassured, was worried Debbie had been sick. Or Araceli. They’d rushed to Nashville only to run into a brick wall. Marc dug through the financials of Pastor Fitch on the off chance Debbie had been assisting with her great-uncle’s bills. No dice. The situation appeared to be just the opposite. From what Marc could tell, Pastor Fitch had been throwing small change at Debbie to supplement a trust fund that yielded only a small monthly dividend. Not enough to live on, but enough to make a free-spirited, missionary lifestyle possible.

  But they were getting nothing done by driving around on a drizzly morning. Worse still, if they kept circling these streets, they would draw attention from the beat cops.

  While passing by a Western wear store with a huge cowboy boot above the awning again, Marc had a brainstorm. Using the GPS on his phone, he located the addresses of nearby vintage clothing stores and pawnshops.

  “Make a right at the next light.” He directed Courtney to drive to the next block before making another right. “Look at that. There’s a place to park right in front of the store.”

  “We’re going shopping?”

  “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  She climbed from the SUV, eyeing him narrowly. “You, have fun? Not buying it.”

  He liked that about her. She didn’t take his shit. “All right, I admit it. I hate shopping.”

  “Then what are we doing here?”

  “No point in driving around, and I can’t exactly walk the streets unnoticed.” Or walk at all. “I’ve solved our problem.”

  Grabbing the door, he allowed her to precede him inside. She took one look at the hippie-type store with beads everywhere and enough burning incense to make his sinuses go berserk and asked, “Um, what are we buying?”

  “New clothes.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. How does that solve our problem?”

  The clerk behind the counter, a kid with more metal studs than a biker jacket, looked up and grunted. Marc scanned the layout, separated into idiot-proof sides for guys and girls.

  “We’re going to become street performers, so we can get out of the car and interact with people without being obvious.”

  She asked the obvious question. “What are we going to perform?”

  “You can be a mime.” He raked his gaze down the length of her, taking in all the creamy skin exposed over the collar of a shirt that subtly hinted at the curves beneath. The jeans that rode low on her hips and clung to every inch of her lean legs. “You wear, what—size four?”

  “Very good. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be.” She wouldn’t think much of the way he’d honed the skill. “I’ve been running my hands over every inch of you. I know what you feel like.”

  She arched an eyebrow and he chuckled. Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to her warm skin, the simple contact suddenly chasing everything else away. What was it about touching her that dulled the edges of his mood?

  More questions. No answers.

  Maneuvering through a few racks, he set down his cane and searched until he found the rack with her size. Plucking off a hanger, Marc eyed the floral-print dress someone’s grandmother might wear to an Easter parade. Passing it to Courtney, he kept looking.

  “What
do you think I’m going to do with this? Make throw pillows?” she asked.

  “Ha, ha. You need something quirky but not too out there. We want to blend in on the street, not be too memorable.”

  Retrieving his cane, he headed across the narrow shop. The one thing he wouldn’t be was unnoticeable no matter what he wore, which was why he planned to park himself in one spot.

  There were the usual oddball items he might expect to find in a vintage store—the brocade cigarette jacket, the fringed suede vest. Marc chose items in his size that weren’t so over-the-top. A Hawaiian shirt in a bright print that a tourist might wear. The sort of short-sleeved button-down that old Latino men seemed to favor. And a cool fedora. That was a keeper. After he sprayed the inside with disinfectant.

  Peering across the racks, he found Courtney considering a lace dress with a high collar that looked like someone’s budget wedding dress. “Too memorable.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded and returned the dress to the rack. Her hair would be noticeable. He made his way to the clerk and dropped off his items. Then he looked through a hat display, choosing a floppy crocheted number that would work with the Easter dress.

  “Do you need to try on anything?” he asked when she caught up with him.

  “I don’t think so. Everything should fit well enough for what we’re doing.”

  She sidestepped him and went to pay for their purchases, but Marc got his card to the clerk faster. Then he held the door while she passed through, and they emerged on the street.

  “Used clothing should not be that expensive,” she said on the trip back to the car.

  “Not used. Vintage.”

  “Previously worn no matter what you call it.”

  His phone vibrated. He connected the call and said, “That was fast,” while tossing his purchases into the backseat.

  Maybe luck was going to make an appearance today.

  “Came across something I thought you’d be interested in.” Bill was the current nom de plume of a guy in his mid-twenties who had been running information for a decade. He would drop out of sight every few years, then reinvent himself, contacting a few select clients willing to pay big for his specialized services.

  Marc climbed in the car. “Make my day. I need it.”

  “Maybe I can do that,” the voice shot back. “Just depends on whether you wanted to bring this one in dead or alive.”

  Damn it. Luck, all right. All bad.

  Glancing at Courtney, Marc found her watching him with the keys still dangling in her hand, waiting to hear good news. Out of the blue, he had an image of the way she looked when she was about to fall asleep. Her lips would part around a deep breath and she would nuzzle her face in the crook of his shoulder. Her body would relax and melt around his.

  He wasn’t sure why he thought of her that way now, but the ache inside was acutely physical. The last thing he wanted to do was douse the hope that made her eyes sparkle.

  * * *

  COURTNEY SAT IN stunned silence, trying to make sense of what Marc was saying.

  “Debbie died?” she repeated, still unsure she had understood him correctly.

  Marc nodded. “Six months ago.”

  They had covered the distance of eight long years only to miss out on learning the truth about Araceli by six months.

  God, she didn’t even know how to begin processing this, how to understand they had come this close to learning what had happened to Araceli. Suddenly everything was changed.

  “What do we do now?”

  He idly stroked her hand. She wanted to lean into his touch, to feel his strong arms around her. He was upset, too. The edges of his expression raw.

  “We keep looking. A sixteen-year-old girl won’t be able to cover her tracks as efficiently as Debbie.”

  “Unless she vanishes on the streets like Jane Doe.”

  “The FBI tracked her down within weeks. We can, too. Be a lot easier than what we’ve been doing.”

  Courtney didn’t want to hear that. Not when this latest turn felt so unfair, so horrible. Debbie had died.

  Motive no longer mattered. Whether Debbie had thought she was keeping Araceli safe, or simply filling a void in her own life, she had lived her last years erasing her existence, and that was so sad. Courtney hoped they were right, hoped Debbie had done all this for Araceli. Hoped they had found something special together—a young girl who had been torn from her life and a giving woman who had lost the people closest to her.

  Please, please, please let there be a happy ending.

  “How did she die?” Courtney asked.

  “I don’t know,” Marc admitted. “There’s no death certificate on record. My money is on an illness, though. The medical expenses were incurred over the span of two years.”

  “Marc, how can there not be a death certificate? Unless there’s a body lying around.” That stopped her cold. Thoughts of happy endings evaporated as every horror story about missing kids resurfaced. “Oh, God. There isn’t a body lying around?”

  “No bodies, but a lot more smoke. I don’t have many details yet. Apparently, with a home death, once the death certificate is signed by a physician, it’s up to the family or whoever’s responsible for the arrangements to file the paperwork with vital records and handle the documentation for beneficiaries.”

  “She died at home?”

  He snorted. “Of course not. That would have been easy. Transportation would have had to be arranged, which meant the funeral home would have called the police because they can’t move a body otherwise. It’s the law.” He shot her a frown. “No, Debbie died with a death midwife.”

  “A what?”

  “Something called an end-of-life consultant.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Apparently not. End-of-life consultants. Death midwives. Call them what you want, but they allow families to care for their dead instead of turning them over to funeral homes that are expensive and treat death like big business.”

  Courtney tried to wrap her brain around death without a funeral home. Her Great-Aunts Frances and Camille had died twenty-four hours apart. Frances, the elder, had waited for her little sister to pass before she went, too. That’s what the family believed, anyway. Close in life. Close in death. It had been the craziest situation, but the most peaceful one for everyone who had loved the elderly sisters.

  Courtney could not even fathom what would have been involved in dealing with their deaths at home. The funeral home had been so wonderful at walking them through every step of the process from arrangements and flowers to filing the death certificates and dealing with insurance companies.

  “With all the laws about everything nowadays, I can’t even imagine how that could be legal,” she said.

  “Give me a second and I’ll tell you how. Why don’t you drive while I research?”

  “Where are we going now?” She guessed their shopping excursion was over.

  “To go talk to this consultant. I’ve got an address.”

  Courtney inputted the location into her phone’s GPS. According to the business description, Sacred Goodbyes was a hospice-type facility in the northern end of town. She pulled away from the curb and headed back toward Broadway.

  “We shouldn’t be surprised,” Marc finally said as she merged onto the highway. “From everything we know about Debbie, this sounds right up her alley.”

  “I still can’t believe this is legal. How can they not legislate the disposal of people? How is that even possible?”

  “My guess is not too many people would do this, so it’s not that big a problem.”

  Courtney frowned, but Marc wasn’t looking at her. He was still squinting at his phone display.

  “From what I’m reading here, death midwives are just holistic versions
of funeral directors. They provide hospice care and make death a celebration of life, encouraging loved ones to create a sacred environment that lets memories and loving conversation flow to ease a person from this life to the next. That was a quote.” He gave another snort.

  “Apparently they arrange green funerals and provide earth-friendly urns and caskets. They even provide bereavement services after the death. But they still have to get the death certificate signed by an authorized person. In Tennessee, that’s a physician or coroner.”

  “Then why isn’t there a death certificate?” Courtney braked to avoid being cut off.

  She had to focus on the road so they didn’t wind up needing an end-of-life consultant themselves. When Marc didn’t respond, her thoughts raced, all the urgency to piece together eight years, and they had missed Debbie by six months.

  “I see where the glitch could be,” he said. “The death midwife would have to get the death certificate signed by a physician, then get it to a crematory or funeral home to have the body dealt with. That’s it. The next-of-kin would be responsible for filing the death certificate with Vital Records.”

  “That’s a bit of an oversight.”

  “Not if someone was stalling or trying to keep anyone from knowing Debbie had died for say, maybe a year and a half.”

  She gasped. “You mean until Araceli turned eighteen?”

  He shifted in his seat, turned toward her. “Most people trip over themselves to get the death certificate filed and issued so they can claim insurance money and cash out assets. But what if Debbie set up her death so life would keep ticking along as usual for as long as possible? Her trust fund would continue to direct-deposit into her checking account. That could explain why Pastor Fitch hasn’t heard from her.”

  Courtney shifted her gaze off the road and found him looking at her with hope in his gaze. No response was necessary because they both knew the answer.

  “Sounds exactly like something Debbie would do.”

  * * *

  JOCELYN SOMMER WAS not what Marc expected of an end-of-life consultant. Eccentric, yes. Quirky even. But not the woman who emerged into the reception area, wearing Hello Kitty scrubs and looking like a busy nurse off a floor in any of a thousand hospitals, nursing homes or hospice facilities. The nameplate on the desk verified that she was a nurse practitioner.