by Robin Caroll
Riley held up her hand before Peggy could reply. “But that’s not all. I want to help your family. I don’t understand why it has to be one over the other when both purposes can be fulfilled by the same action.” She shook her head. “I believe your husband is innocent, Mrs. Wilson.”
Moisture pooled in Peggy’s eyes as she opened the door and moved aside. “Then come on in and let’s talk.”
Riley crossed the threshold and stepped into the living room. “How’s Jasmine’s eye?”
“A lovely shade of purple today.” She motioned to the couch and dropped onto the threadbare love seat. “Have a seat. Sorry the house is a mess, but Mikey’s ears are infected again and Jasmine and I have been taking turns staying up with him. They’re both sleeping right now.”
Because of the medical problems of Rafe’s goddaughter, Riley had an idea of the problems with surgical procedures and insurance companies. It seemed as if the two entities couldn’t agree on what was best for the patient. “I’m so sorry. Is he any better?”
“On yet another round of antibiotics. At the rate we’re going, the co-pays at the doctor’s office and pharmacy are going to fill our out-of-pocket maximum.” Peggy exhaled forcefully, sending the curls resting on her forehead out of her eyes. “But the good Lord will take care of us in His way.” She smiled. “Armand said he likes you. He’s impressed with your tenacity.”
Riley liked him too. But more importantly, she believed him. “I’ve reviewed his trial transcript too many times to count. And after talking with him, I can’t believe the jury didn’t find him not guilty.”
“I agree. When the foreman read the verdict aloud, my heart and stomach flipped places. I tried really hard to be strong for Armand, but I couldn’t keep my gasp silent.” She shook her head. “I’d been positive they’d find him not guilty. When they didn’t, I crumbled all the way to my foundation.”
Riley could relate. If Simon Lancaster had been found not guilty . . . interesting how she would have felt the same over a not-guilty verdict as Peggy did over a guilty one.
“I’ll be the first to admit that guilty verdict not only knocked me out, but it also chinked away at my faith. How could God have let my innocent husband go to prison? What had we done so wrong to be ripped apart? How was I supposed to bear all the responsibility for our family on my own? I’d never been anything but a housewife and mother.”
Words wouldn’t form in Riley’s mouth. She, too, had questioned God’s wisdom when her parents were killed. All because of one man’s addiction. Senseless.
“Me and God . . . well, let’s just say that I didn’t hold my temper or my tongue very well.” Peggy chuckled. “Good thing our heavenly Father doesn’t wash our mouths out with soap without giving us the opportunity to apologize first.”
Riley couldn’t help grinning. There were many times in her struggles with her grief that she’d yelled out to God. Screamed at Him. “I think God expects that, don’t you? Just like you know when you make a decision Jasmine won’t like because she can’t see past the here and now, she’s going to be angry. Stomp to her room. Slam a door.”
“Or curse me under her breath.” Peggy nodded. “Yes, I think God does expect that. I also think He wants that. For us to bring Him our every emotion, the good and the bad. Isn’t that what a relationship built on love is all about? Sharing everything?”
She’d never thought about it quite in those terms, but Riley realized Peggy had a valid point.
“I got mad, but then realized I couldn’t be bitter. Not if I wanted to be there for Jasmine and Mikey. I didn’t have the luxury of staying angry. My children needed me to be calm and peaceful, so that’s what I determined to be. And only God can provide peace and calm in the most terrible of storms.”
The strength of this woman amazed Riley. With Peggy’s permission, her faith would be the focus of the next article in the series. She already had the headline: A Testimony of Faith—One Woman’s Walk Through the Storm of Life. She’d have to push the envelope with Jeremy, who didn’t like any piece focused on religion, but she couldn’t write about Peggy Wilson’s strength without telling about the underlying support of it. Since the series had only continued to gain followers, Riley had an idea she could hold her ground with her editor.
“I’d like your permission to speak to your husband’s attorney.”
Peggy rolled her eyes. “If you can get him to return your calls, more power to you.”
“He won’t return your calls?”
She shook her head. “He only answers Armand’s because he has to. We’ve been waiting on him to file some additional paperwork for Armand’s appeal. And he hasn’t been to see Armand in months.”
“Have you spoken with someone at the court about this? It’s obviously some form of misconduct on his part. He’s a court-appointed attorney, right?”
“Yes. He didn’t impress me during the trial. He talked Armand into refusing to let Jasmine testify.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the bedrooms before leaning closer to Riley. “I think Jasmine carries a burden she shouldn’t because of it. She thinks if she’d been able to testify and tell the jury that she saw her daddy here at home during the time of the robbery, he wouldn’t have been convicted.”
Maybe that would have made a difference to a jury. Cute little girl on the stand telling them she saw her daddy in her living room.
“I don’t know if it would’ve changed anything, but she so wanted the chance. To be told she couldn’t by that attorney, and then confirmed by Armand . . . well, it really cut her to the quick.”
“What reason did he give Mr. Wilson to get him to agree to not let her testify?”
“He said the prosecutor would rip Jasmine to shreds on cross-examination. That no one would believe a child trying to keep her daddy at home and that the jury would think less of him because he’d resorted to exploiting his child to save his own hide.”
Well, that did sound like a legitimate explanation.
“Armand thought he was doing the best thing for Jasmine and himself. I agreed at the time, but now . . . well, I often wonder if we made a mistake.”
“They say hindsight is twenty-twenty, right? You could only do what you felt was best at the time.”
Peggy sighed. “You’re right. I think Jasmine knows that, deep down. She’s just at that age where she really needs her daddy, you know?”
For the advice on boys. For the sense of security no one else could ever provide. For the warmth of being Daddy’s little girl. Yes, Riley knew all too well. “Yeah.” She had to shove the word over the grief. She felt a true kinship to Jasmine Wilson.
If she could find a way to help the situation, Riley would do whatever it took. No matter what.
“The only mention of her name in the press I’ll accept is in conjunction with her obituary.”
“Yes, sir.” The new hire seemed to get the point.
“Today.”
“I’m on it right now.”
Oswald liked that. Much better than the previous one. “Did you take care of the other problem we discussed?”
“Already handled as you requested.” A minor break in the phone connection crackled. “You’ll never hear from him again.”
This one understood his place. Maybe he’d keep this one around. “I’ll call you in the morning to ensure the assignment has been completed. Don’t disappoint me.”
“No, sir. I have everything under control.”
He hung up the phone, suddenly craving a cigarette. It’d been a good five years since he smoked. Sometimes he truly missed the habit. After a good meal. After sex. Now.
On his best days, he managed to avoid thinking about the undesirable tendencies he had to leave behind when he left prison. Smoking, drinking, drugs . . . while he still enjoyed a nightcap, now he poured a high-price, labeled scotch rather than p
utrid cheap wine that would leave him with a headache the next morning. He’d quit the habits now. Habits were signs of weakness. Of someone who allowed cravings to dictate his life.
No more.
Just as he’d left behind the name his mother had saddled him with and the mess of a life she’d stuck him in. He’d left behind the signs of weakness and never looked back.
He never would.
His office phone rang. He ignored it. That’s why he had an assistant—to screen his calls, among other things.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“A Johnny Smith is on the line for you.”
He’d wondered how long it would take for the weasel to get around to contacting him. Had taken him long enough. Had he even made the connection, or was this call for an entirely different reason?
In the event the idiot had actually used his brain and made a connection, the situation needed to be under control. Tomorrow.
He smiled at his secretary. “Tell him you tried to catch me but couldn’t. Assure him that you’ll have me call him in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.” She backed out of the office, pulling the door closed.
He grinned. He’d truly left the past behind. The days when he couldn’t manipulate. When he waited at the mercy of politicians and game changers. When he couldn’t do anything more than survive. When he had to live by everyone else’s rules.
No more.
He hadn’t been expecting her to be so . . . young and healthy.
And beautiful.
Hayden stood as Lisa Manchester entered the formal sitting room. From the attitude of her butler, doorman, whatever he was, Hayden had assumed she was elderly or handicapped. He should know better. She couldn’t be older than his mother and moved with a ballerina’s grace.
“Please, sit down.” She waved him and Bob away. “Charles said this couldn’t wait, so please get on with whatever you need to see me for. I’m very tired and need my rest.”
It took all types. “We’re investigating the murder of Matthew Nichols.”
Her expression never changed.
“Did you know him?”
“I don’t believe so.” She stood. “Is that all?”
“No, ma’am.” Hayden refused to stand, no matter how rude. “What about Mack Thompson or Evan Coleman?”
She sighed and sat, keeping her posture perfectly straight. “Those names aren’t familiar either.”
“What about Robert Ellington?”
Her eyes widened, just for a split second, but it was enough that Hayden caught it.
“You knew Robert Ellington?” Apparently, Bob had caught her reaction as well.
She had a strange way of turning to look at you without moving. It was the oddest thing—only her eyes moved, but they didn’t dart from subject to subject. They kind of . . . rolled, then shifted to the next object. She did it again to focus on Bob. “I’m sure you gentlemen are aware I served on a committee with Mr. Ellington.” She frowned. “Of course I knew him.”
“What about Jason Vermillion?”
“Of course. Same reason.”
Hayden drew her attention. “Curtis Goins and Allen Boyce?”
“Of course. We served on committees together through our positions at the health-care commission.” She gave an almost undetectable tilt of her head. “But you already know all this. You went through quite a bit of difficulty to find me. Why don’t you ask the questions you came to ask?”
Hayden tapped his notebook. “Why don’t you explain to me about that difficulty?”
“What about it?”
“You built layers upon layers of corporations and aliases to mislead and misdirect in the event anyone looked for the owner of this place.” Bob stretched his legs out in front of him, narrowly missing the coffee table. “Why is that?”
She shrugged. “You found me. Obviously.”
“We’re the police. We have resources the ordinary person doesn’t.” Hayden met her icy stare.
“All of my corporations and holdings are registered and filed properly. Each layer, as you call it, is legal.”
“But why?” Bob leaned forward, his discomfort as obvious as hers.
“That’s my personal business.” She turned her frigid glare on Hayden. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. Why did you retire from the commission so suddenly and seem to disappear?”
“Again, that’s my personal business.”
Now Hayden placed her name. “You retired right after Jason Vermillion died, didn’t you?” Funny, now that he recalled the case, he realized she looked exactly the same. As if she hadn’t aged at all.
“I did.” Her posture remained perfect.
“I talked with you back then. You lived in Baton Rouge.”
“I did.” The tip of her tongue peeked out from between her lips in the middle of her mouth. “That’s not a crime to move, I hope.” But she didn’t smile.
“No.” This was like pulling eyeteeth. “I have to ask, Ms. Manchester, how do you afford this place?”
“That’s rather personal, isn’t it?”
Bob stood suddenly, causing her to suck in air. “According to records, you paid cash for it. How’d you manage that?”
She looked from Bob to Hayden. Then sighed. Glanced at the floor. The wall. Out the window. Then back at Hayden. “You aren’t going to let this drop, are you?”
“No, ma’am. Not until I get some answers. I’m working at least one, possibly more murders.”
“You can’t keep digging in my records. I’ve been careful to keep my tracks hidden. If you keep on, you’ll lead him to me.” Her chin quivered.
“Him?” What in tarnation was she talking about? The woman’s facade crumbled like a week-old coffee cake.
She nodded, her face beginning to take on a hint of expression. “After Jason died, I received a package. Almost a million dollars in cash and a letter.”
Hayden’s blood rushed faster than it had in a long, long time. “A letter?”
“A million dollars in cash?” Bob asked.
“Yes, in cash.” She did that annoying eye-roll-shift-focus thing again and looked at Hayden. “The letter said: ‘I know you’re not to blame. This is your chance to leave unscathed. Disappear, or you’ll suffer the same fate as Jason. And the others to follow.’” She shook her head. “I’ve never forgotten it. Nor will I.”
“So, you did what when you got the package?” Hayden had to ask the question, even when the answer was obvious.
“I did as warned. I disappeared. Quickly sold my home and car, moved here. Set up dummy corporation after corporation, then bought this place. I kept myself alive and safe.”
Some life. The woman wasn’t eccentric as Hayden had first thought—she was terrified and a prisoner in her own home. Granted, a beautiful home, but a prison nonetheless. “You didn’t tell the police? Anyone?”
“No. I knew better. This was the week after we buried Jason. I wasn’t going to stick around to see if whoever bluffed.” She let out a quick breath. “Besides, one million dollars in cash is quite the persuasive device.”
Hayden could only imagine.
“What weren’t you to blame for?” Bob asked.
She turned to him, still not moving anything but her eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t then, I still don’t.” She swallowed, and that’s when Hayden noticed the scars just under her chin. This woman had had plastic surgery. Quite a bit, if what he saw was any indication. No wonder she was like ice—she probably couldn’t move her features.
“Did you keep in touch with anyone?”
“No.” Her gaze bored into Hayden’s. “Why would I? The letter told me to disappear, so I did. I didn’t know who I could trust. I couldn’t take a chance.”
“No. For all I know, everyone else received a similar package and didn’t act on it.”
It was a consideration.
“Is there anything else? I’m afraid this discussion has upset me and I need to compose myself.”
More like take some valium so as not to feel anything that would cause her to move her face and maybe crack it. “That’s all for now, Ms. Manchester.”
She stood. “Charles will see you to the door. And please, for my safety, do what you can to protect the details of my location.”
She won for callousness of the year. “We will.”
“Good evening, gentlemen.” She turned and opened the door.
Charles waited in the foyer.
“Oh, Ms. Manchester?” Hayden called out to her.
She turned her entire body. “Yes?”
“We might need to ask you a few more questions. Please don’t leave town without notifying us. I’ll leave my card with Charles.”
For the second time, her composure shifted and she frowned. She recovered just as quickly as before. “Of course.”
He and Bob were silent until safely ensconced in the cruiser.
“What a whacko,” Bob blurted out, as if he’d held it inside so long that it nearly erupted.
“She’s a nutcase all right.” Hayden started the car and steered it down the long, lonely driveway. “Sad too.”
“Whatever. Give me a million dollars cash and I’m gonna go farther than half an hour away.”
“But she’s a woman alone . . . and it was twelve years ago. Things were different then.”
“I suppose. What do you make of her story?”
“I dunno.” Hayden turned back onto the road. “But most important, we need to figure out what she wasn’t to blame for and why someone held everyone else involved responsible.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Does God pervert justice? Does the Almighty pervert what is right?”