no one else could see. She did that a lot, and if questioned about it, she laughed and said her mind liked to wander. If she could see the stark, gut-wrenching look on her face at those times, she would probably never laugh again.
Her husband, sitting on a footstool in front of her, was first to notice Landry. “Mary Ellen, look, your brother’s here.”
She didn’t look. Didn’t give any sign that she’d heard Scott.
Scott met Landry halfway and shook hands. “I’m glad you came. Have you heard anything else?”
Breathing deeply of the flowering plants that filled the room, Landry shook his head. He would let the authorities tell them that the old man wasn’t the only victim. She knew Constance and the Owens way better than he did, and he’d always been the one experiencing bad news. He didn’t deliver it. “How is she holding up?”
“She’s been like that since she called you. Hasn’t cried a tear.”
Scott sounded worried, but Landry wasn’t. Tears were overrated. Their mother had cried thousands of them when they were still a family. So had Mary Ellen, and Landry had shed a few of his own. It hadn’t changed anything. It hadn’t made them feel better. There’d been no catharsis.
Navigating around furniture and plants, he crouched in front of his sister and took her hand in his. It was ice-cold. “Hey, Mary Ellen.”
Her gaze shifted slowly, a millimeter at a time, until it connected with his. A wobbly smile touched her mouth, then slipped away. “It’s true, isn’t it, Landry? It really is true. Daddy’s dead.”
“Yeah, he is.”
The tears that had concerned Scott welled in her brown eyes, so much like Landry’s, but didn’t spill over. “I knew,” she whispered. “I felt it all the way deep inside, but I kept thinking...”
That it might be a mistake. That it was never good to celebrate prematurely.
Though she seemed to be leaning toward mourning. Why? What had she seen in the admiral that made him worth mourning? Things had been no better for her than for Landry, worse even. She’d been fragile, like their mother, and in her eyes, her escape had been as bad as the situation she’d left.
But the concept of family had always been important to Mary Ellen. She heaped her family with love and respect and expectations; she forgave them anything. She stood by them no matter what. She’d even been trying from the day he left the family to bring him back into it. She’d succeeded only as far as the next generation. No way was he going to let the admiral drive him away from his nieces.
Mary Ellen’s eyes widened as if she’d just thought of something, and her fingers tightened around his in a grip that was painful. So much for fragile. “Oh, Landry, how will we tell Mama? She’ll be so heartbroken. He was her life.”
Landry blinked. He’d never been sure their mother loved their father. Camilla was wellborn, but the family had fallen on hard times. Her daddy would have sold her to the highest bidder to hold on to the family property. Jeremiah, a mere ensign at the time, had been looking for a wife suitable to the illustrious Jackson family as well as his journey into the upper echelons of navy command. Landry had never figured their marriage for anything more than a business arrangement.
“Mary Ellen, we don’t even know where she is.” After too many years with the old man, Camilla had finally taken off. Miss Viola had been the one to tell Landry, calling him at the bar, asking if Camilla had discussed her plans with him. You know I only see her twice a year. From the time he’d left home, she’d always tracked him down on his birthday and at Christmas. He’d visited with her awhile at Mary Ellen’s wedding—with the admiral glowering from a distance—and again when the girls were born. That was it.
Mary Ellen’s expression turned wistful. “Every time the phone rings, I hope... The girls and I pray for her every night before bed.” Her gaze slanted his way. “We pray for you, too.”
Landry wasn’t sure what to say to that. They’d gone to mass every week as kids, and he’d said a lot of prayers, but the only answer he’d ever got was silence. God’s ears were obviously closed to some people’s pleas, and he was one of them.
Ignoring her last comment, he watched her closely as he asked, “Did you know she was leaving? Did she say goodbye to you? Did she say anything at all to suggest...?”
He could see Camilla neglecting to mention it to him. Their mother-son relationship had run its course. But after Mary Ellen’s years away at boarding school, the two had been close, especially once the babies had come along.
There were no shadows in Mary Ellen’s eyes, no guilt or deceit crossing her face, just a wounded-deer look. “No. I never understood. But Daddy said...”
Like the bastard wouldn’t lie? Rear Admiral Jeremiah Jackson Junior would be the last man to admit that his wife of more than thirty years had taken off for a better life. The disrespect would be more than his ego could afford.
Wherever Camilla was, Landry hoped she was happy. God knew, she deserved it.
Soft footsteps sounded in the hall a moment before Geneva appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Scott, the police are here. They want to talk to Miss Mary Ellen.”
As Scott nodded, Landry pried his hand free of his sister’s and stood, the muscles in his calves stinging in relief. He moved behind her, finding a spot to lean against the wall, grateful for the tall plants and busy wallpaper that would buy him a few minutes of time, and watched silently as Jimmy DiBiase came through the doorway. Following a few steps behind him was Alia Kingsley.
They introduced themselves to Mary Ellen and Scott, expressed their condolences, took a seat and began asking questions. When was the last time you saw your father? Talked to him? Were at his house? Landry listened to his sister’s answer, one to cover them all: I was at the house last night. Scott was working late, and the girls and I walked over to have dinner with him. We stayed until eight. I had to get them home for bedtime.
If she’d forgiven their father, she was a bigger person than Landry. Granted, he wasn’t big on forgiveness in general. He would have sooner killed the man than forgiven him—a sentiment better kept to himself under the circumstances.
The interview had gone on about five minutes when Landry made the mistake of exhaling and setting the delicate leaves of the plant beside him fluttering. Alia Kingsley’s gaze cut his way, laserlike in its intensity, and recognition flashed in her eyes. She interrupted DiBiase in the middle of a question and bluntly spoke.
“You were outside the house earlier.” The smooth skin wrinkled between her eyes as her gaze zeroed in on his face, cataloging it, he had no doubt, for future-suspect reference. “Why? Who are you?”
Mary Ellen glanced over her shoulder, her eyes widening, pink spots forming high on her cheeks. “Oh, where are my manners? I’m sorry. Sometimes he’s so quiet, I forget he’s around.” Her smile fluttered, and so did her hands. “Special Agent Kingsley, Detective DiBiase, this is my brother, Jeremiah Jackson the third.”
As a sardonic smile slowly tilted the corner of Jeremiah III’s mouth, it popped into Alia’s mind that, unlike his sister, he had no manners. The air of quiet about him was almost
