by Ken Casper
Brows raised, she was momentarily taken aback. The condescension implied in the remark shocked her. Jed was a wealthy man who obviously lived well, but she hadn’t expected this arrogance from him.
Apparently sensing the way he’d come across, he said, “June gets very upset if I invade her turf, and she’d flay me alive if she found out I let a guest wash dishes.” The tiny smile tickling the corner of his mouth assured her he understood exactly what her reaction had been.
“Do you like Cajun coffee?” he asked.
“I don’t know. If that’s what you drink, let me try it.”
Her wanting to share his tastes inordinately pleased him. “You’re on, but you have to promise to be truthful. If you decide you don’t care for it, say so, and I’ll make a pot of regular.”
She held up her hand palm out, three fingers raised. “Scout’s honor.”
He laughed. “Were you in the Scouts?”
She didn’t dare tell him that Millers didn’t participate in plebian organizations like the Scouts. “Never got around to it. You?”
“Earned all my merit badges and made Eagle.”
He ground a blend of French-roast coffee beans and chicory and boiled it in an enamel pot. She helped him set a tray with large geometrically patterned cups, cream, sugar, spoons and small cloth napkins. He’d just carried it to the library when the doorbell rang.
He put the tray down on a corner of the desk, excused himself and came back a minute later with her neighbor.
“Gwyneth Miller, Riley Gray.”
“We’ve met,” she said. “Over the back fence. And his beautiful daughter.”
He wasn’t exactly Gwyn’s image of a lawyer. In the world in which she’d grown up, attorneys wore suits twenty-four hours a day. This man was dressed casually in chinos and a knit shirt. He was a couple of inches shorter than Jed, but was still about six feet tall, exuding the sinewy fitness of a man who took care of himself. Jed was deeply tanned. Riley wasn’t any darker, but his complexion was more bronze toned. It took only a moment’s glance at his broad handsome features to realize he had a strong Native American heritage.
“Gwyn was just about to sample some of my coffee,” Jed announced.
Riley smiled at her. “First time?”
She nodded.
“Brave girl.”
“Speaking of brave girls,” Jed interposed. “How did Alanna get a boo-boo?”
Riley’s face lit up at the mention of his daughter. “A tragedy of the first magnitude, I’m afraid,” he said melodramatically. “She sustained a splinter in her finger from the fence when she was out playing this afternoon. We had to perform tweezer surgery. I kissed it, of course, but the anesthetic effect keeps wearing off.”
“Maybe she just likes getting kisses,” Gwyn suggested.
Riley grinned proudly. “And I’ll happily keep giving them.”
“Should I send a sympathy card?” Jed asked lightheartedly.
“Not yet. Sympathy is a pretty big word for someone not yet five years old.”
They settled into easy chairs and sipped the bitter, full-bodied coffee.
“Now,” Riley said, “tell me about Logan Fielder’s shenanigans.”
Chapter Ten
JED TOOK a deep breath and related his four run-ins with the sheriff: the morning before, when he’d announced Frannie’s gravesite was a crime scene; this morning, when Jed called him to arrest some trespassers; later, when he discovered the guards on the scene; and finally, this evening at dinner, when he showed up asking questions.
“What questions?” Riley asked.
“He wanted me to establish an alibi for the day Frannie disappeared.”
“What did you tell him?”
“To read his notes. He asked me the same things nineteen years ago. I shouldn’t have to answer them again.”
Riley stroked his chin. “It’s not a completely unreasonable request. Two decades ago, he was looking into a disappearance with no hard evidence of foul play. Now he has a murder to solve.”
“I advised him not to answer any questions, Riley,” Gwyn informed him. “I didn’t like the sheriff’s attitude.”
Riley guffawed. “If you’re waiting for Logan Fielder to get into a good mood, you’re likely to have a crown of snow-white hair first.” He tugged on his ear. “Your advice was well-founded though. The less said to the sheriff or either of his deputies the better.”
“Will you come with me when I do get dragged in for questioning?” Jed asked.
“Of course.” He paused. “But I have to remind you my specialty is civil, not criminal, law. I can make sure the sheriff isn’t too out of line in giving you the third degree, but if he’s going to get tough—and knowing Fielder, he probably will—I’d recommend you hire yourself a good defense attorney.”
Jed was disappointed that he’d have to confide in someone else, but he respected his friend’s honesty. “Is there anyone you can recommend?”
Riley sipped his coffee while he considered a minute. “Dempsey in Jefferson handles criminal matters, but most of them are for assault, robbery and an occasional auto theft. As far as I know he’s never been involved in a homicide case. There’s a new guy in Marshall—Kingston or Kingsley. I hear he’s taken on a couple of wrongful-death suits, but again that’s civil, not criminal. I can ask around . . .”
“How about Dexter Thorndyke?” Gwyn asked.
The two men stopped in midmotion and stared at her.
“Dexter Thorndyke?” Jed asked incredulously. “The Dexter Thorndyke? The guy who defended Trigve Helms against the murder of his fiancée?”
Trigve Helms was a retired Olympian and endorser of athletic equipment for one of the biggest sports manufacturers in the world. Several hours after having a very public argument with his fiancée, McKenna Hasley, the showgirl was found strangled with the tie Trigve had last been seen wearing. The case seemed open-and-shut, despite Trigve’s vehement protests of innocence, and public opinion leaned heavily toward his being guilty. It seemed likely he would have been convicted of first-degree murder had Dexter Thorndyke not been brought in at the last minute to defend him. There was still a great deal of controversy over whether the former gold medal winner had actually committed the murder, but the jury had found him not guilty.
When Gwyn nodded, Jed added, “Not a chance.”
“You mean you don’t want him?”
Jed snorted. “There’s no way in creation he’d take my case. Can you imagine the Great Thorn coming all the way from New Orleans to Uncertain, Texas? Give me a break.”
“But you would hire him if you could?” she persisted.
He huffed. “Of course I would, but it’s not going to happen.”
“It won’t hurt to ask him.”
“I don’t even know how to get hold of him,” Jed huffed, showing exasperation.
“I do.”
She and Jed looked at each other for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Riley got up from his chair. “Gee, I’m going to feel guilty about charging you for this house call and consultation when I wasn’t the one who came up with the solution, but I’ll just have to swallow my pride.”
Jed rose. “You’re leaving?”
“No more work for me here, my friend.” He closed the short distance to Gwyn, took her hands in his and kissed her in brotherly fashion on the cheek.
“Go for it. Do keep me posted,” he told Jed as he turned toward the door to the hallway. A moment later they heard the front door click shut.
Jed stared at Gwyn long enough to make her fidget.
“Would you care to tell me what’s going on?” he said. “How is it you can call a man like Dexter Thorndyke to take my case?”
“Can we sit down?”
He gave her a nod and returned to his s
eat. Eyeing her, he took a sip of his coffee, realized it was cold and placed the cup back on its saucer. She hadn’t moved.
He motioned her to the chair behind her. When she finally slipped into it, he asked, “Who are you?”
You would think a man who had just been offered the opportunity to be represented by one of the foremost defense attorneys in the country would be pleased, she complained to herself. Instead, he seemed more miffed than glad.
“The name Miller is fairly common, so of course it doesn’t ring any bells for you, but perhaps you’ve heard of my father, Wingate Miller.”
Oh, yes. The bell chimed this time.
“Senator Wingate Miller of the Miller—”
“—Millions.” She let the word out in a sigh of displeasure. It would have been so easy to drop her head, to shrink from what she saw on his face. She managed, however, to maintain eye contact.
“Let me see if I have this straight,” he said slowly. “Your father is a prominent member of the United States Senate. You’re from one of the wealthiest, most influential families in the nation, and you’re living in my rental house next door and playing with animals.”
“Not playing with them,” she snapped, and jumped to her feet.
Her parents had used terms like that, condescending words that implied she was wasting her time and talents, that she was irresponsible and a disgrace to her heritage. She’d run away from them because she’d had no choice. She wouldn’t back away from Jed Louis, because she did. Standing directly in front of him, her feet planted slightly apart, she informed him, “I’m making a living as an animal manager.”
He stretched an arm across the back of a couch and met her gaze. “Why?”
“Because of your reaction a moment ago.”
Brow furled, he shook his head in utter bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”
She returned to the easy chair and sat down. “You didn’t even realize you’d done it. You lowered your voice when you referred to the Miller Millions, like someone praying in church, as if there’s something sacred about the Miller family. Believe me, there isn’t. I’m not sacred. I’m not holy. I don’t want to be spoken of—even behind my back—in whispers. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be always held at arm’s length?”
He wanted to tell her he did, but from the other side of the church door. To be treated not as sacred but profane, not as holy but a sinner, condemned by his very birth. To be not only whispered about behind his back but to sometimes have it shouted in his face—that he was nothing, nobody, a piece of dirt that was best left in the gutter. Yes, he knew.
“You are special,” he said to console, but instead of seeing pleasure in her eyes, he watched her face crumple, as if he’d just insulted her. Rather than bringing them together, his words had driven them apart.
He had a sudden urge to kneel at her feet and tell her she was very special to him, but she didn’t want anyone paying court to her or singing her praises. Restlessly, he rose and began pacing the space between her chair and the desk.
“So to conceal your identity, you lied to me,” he stated. “Again.”
“I didn’t lie,” she assured him, but there was despair in her voice. “I didn’t tell you anything that wasn’t true.”
He held up a finger to indicate enlightenment. “Ah, yes, of course. I forgot. Telling half-truths is as good as whole truths, and if the listener misinterprets the meaning behind your carefully crafted statements, it’s his fault for being so dense.”
She clutched the arms of the chair. “I never said that. I’ve never suggested you’re dense.”
“Isn’t that what you do every time you mislead me?”
“No.”
“You have harness horses to pasture,” he continued, ignoring her. “But I’m too simpleminded to even imagine they might be miniatures.”
“Jed, you don’t understand—”
“Someone wants to dig up my land, but I’m too narrow-minded to let them, so it’s better to get the authorities to force me to do what’s right.”
“Please, Jed—“
“Your name is Miller, but I’m too dim-witted to figure out that you might be one of the Millers, heir to a legendary fortune. After all, it’s a great joke driving a rattletrap Land Rover and slumming in a little rental house, when you could be chauffeured in a Rolls-Royce and build a mansion, if it struck your fancy.”
He was shocked when he turned around to hurl yet another insult in her face and saw the hurt expression in her eyes. Instantly he stopped his pacing. He wanted to reach out for her hand and beg her forgiveness.
“I’m sorry to have caused you so much trouble.” Her voice was remarkably steady, firm, sincere. “I shouldn’t have interfered. Thank you for dinner.”
She rose with dignity and walked swiftly to the veranda door.
“Gwyn.” He took a step forward. “Gwyn, I didn’t . . .”
The door clicked shut behind her. He rushed outside, but she was already moving into the woods, Romeo at her heel. Jed called after her, but she didn’t turn around. He followed at a slower pace. At least he could make sure she got home safely. He waited until he saw a light go on inside the house, then he retraced his steps in the dark to Beaumarais.
GWYN CLOSED the door and leaned her back against it. Tears, hot and heavy, threatened to break through. She fought for control, knowing once they started, it would be impossible to restrain them. Part of what Jed said was true. She had purposely misled and deceived him. But, she reminded herself, she didn’t owe him the complete truth. She didn’t hold back because she was a chronic liar or because she enjoyed deceiving people as Jed claimed. It was self-defense, pure and simple. She hated the distance her name put between her and the people she met, the barrier it put up to ever having a “normal” social relationship.
She’d grown up in a world of fawning isolation, and she’d hated it. Other kids had friends they could talk to, friends who were willing to share secrets. Not Gwyneth Miller of the fabled Miller fortune. She wasn’t invited to just drop in at people’s homes, and no one ever appeared at the Miller mansion capriciously or unannounced. She felt smothered in politeness and good manners, or hated because she represented what other people didn’t have. They didn’t know the price of wealth and power.
Jed was wrong, though, if he thought she didn’t consider him very bright. In only a few days of close association, she’d found him to be intelligent and honest. Qualities that weren’t foremost among Miller bluebloods or their cronies. How would she ever get him to understand her motives?
Chapter Eleven
JED RETURNED home from his office in Jefferson around three o’clock the following afternoon. He waved to Josiah, who was trimming a yellow primrose jasmine on the side of the house. June’s husband was short, dark and round, and inclined to be as loquacious as she was taciturn. Jed had spent most of the morning reviewing building options on six pieces of commercial property he owned in Marshall. After a business lunch with the president of the chamber of commerce to discuss the upcoming Anglers’ Ball, he’d dealt with a feed-store owner who’d recently delivered a batch of improperly cured steam-rolled oats.
Now there was a Mercedes parked in the circular driveway. Jed continued around the side of the house to the detached garage and entered his home through the kitchen door as he usually did. June was mixing something in a bowl that smelled faintly of cinnamon.
“There’s a gentleman to see you, sir.” She nodded to a business card sitting on the corner of the stainless-steel counter.
Jed picked it up and read the embossed print. Dexter Thorndyke, Attorney-at-Law. For a moment, Jed was speechless. After the way he’d treated Gwyn the night before he’d assumed her offer to contact the famous defense lawyer was a dead issue.
“Where is he now?”
“In the sitting r
oom.”
“How long has he been waiting?”
June poured the batter into a greased cake tin. “He called a little while ago and asked when you’d be available. I told him I expected you back around three and gave him your number at the office. He arrived here a few minutes later and asked if he could wait. Apparently your secretary told him you’d already left.”
Jed looked at his watch. It was 3:10. “I’ll take him to the library.”
“Will you be wanting anything?”
“Give us a few minutes, then come in and check.”
He entered the Victorian sitter. “Mr. Thorndyke, I’m Jed Louis. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Thank you for coming.”
The prestigious attorney turned from his examination of the contents of a glass cabinet in the corner opposite the room’s single window. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, with thinning gray-streaked brown hair. Average in height, neither tall nor short, stout but not obese, he had clear brown eyes that were sharp, intelligent and assessing. His summer-weight tan suit and pale-yellow shirt were complemented by a conservative tie of muted maroon and blue stripes.
“Mr. Louis, I’m pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand and clasped Jed’s in a firm shake. “You have a beautiful home here. I was just looking at your book collection. One doesn’t often see a first edition of Dickens’s David Copperfield so casually displayed.”
The comment smacked of criticism, but Jed decided to reserve judgment. On its face the observation was, no doubt, true, and he realized it could just as easily be a compliment.
“Let’s go to the library,” Jed offered. “We’ll be more comfortable there.”
He led his guest through the far door directly into the massive room at the north end of the house and waved a hand toward one of two couches in front of the cold fireplace.
Thorndyke held back, however, and turned in a full circle. “I retract what I said,” he remarked. “The other room is merely pretty. This is beautiful.”