Murder in Plain Sight. Marta Perry
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flower bed overflowing with tulips and roses.
“Is Mrs. Morgan in?” She kept her tone polite but put a sliver of ice in it.
“Not at the moment.” Level brows drew together forbiddingly. “I’m sorry to tell you this after you’ve driven out from Philadelphia, but the family has decided we don’t require your services.”
The words hit her like a slap in the face. Was that a polite way of saying they didn’t think her competent? Mrs. Morgan wouldn’t have hired her in the first place if she thought that.
“There must be some misunderstanding. I spoke briefly to Mrs. Morgan just before I left the city, and I gave her my cell-phone number. Surely she would have called if she didn’t want me to come.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“Do you mind if we discuss this someplace other than the porch?”
He took a step back, with an air of giving ground reluctantly. “I suppose you can come in.”
But not for long, his body language said.
Jessica stepped into a center hallway, cool and shady after the June sunshine outside. Yellow roses spilled from a milk-glass pitcher on a marble-topped table, and a bentwood coatrack was topped with a wide-brimmed straw hat. Morgan gestured toward an archway to the right, and she walked through it.
In the moment before she faced the man again she had a quick impression of Oriental carpets against wide-planked wooden floors and ivory curtains pulled back from many-paned windows. The furniture was a mix of periods, comfortable and well-used but holding its beauty.
She faced Morgan, tilting her chin. He must top six feet, and his height gave him an unfair advantage. That, and the fact that he was on his home turf. Still, she was the professional, called in when things went wrong.
“Mrs. Morgan retained me to defend a client named Thomas Esch on a charge of murder. She asked me to come immediately, which I did. If you have decided on another attorney—” She let the thought hang. He owed her an explanation, and he must know it.
“It’s not a question of that,” he said quickly. “Not at all. We’ve simply decided that it’s wrong for us to be involved in the case. Naturally we expect to be billed for your time and trouble. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
It was an invitation to go. She didn’t take it. Blake Morgan had that air of command down to an art. He was the type you had to stand up to at the start or always be steamrolled, not that she expected to have enough of a relationship with him to care.
When she didn’t move, a glint of anger showed in his face. “I’ll have to ask you to leave now, Ms. Langdon.”
Fight back? Or roll quietly away and say goodbye to what was left of her career? Not much of a choice.
“I was retained by Geneva Morgan. If she no longer requires my services, I’ll have to hear it from her.”
His jaw hardened until it resembled one of the rocks in the stone fireplace that dominated one wall of the living room. “Thomas Esch is accused of a brutal murder. I don’t want my mother involved, even in the background, in such a thing.”
“Are you saying you speak for her?”
“Yes.” He bit off the word.
“Do you have a power of attorney to do so?”
His teeth seemed to grind together, and he leaned toward her. She’d scored, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he’d say next.
Quick, light footsteps crossed the hall behind them. “Trey, my dear, there you are. You must have gotten the message wrong, dear, and that’s so unlike you.”
Jessica watched, fascinated, as the woman trotted across to Blake and patted his cheek. She had to reach up, very far up. If this was his mother, he clearly didn’t take after her.
“You must write things down,” the woman scolded gently, as if he were about six.
She spun, swooping toward Jessica and holding out both hands. Bright green eyes sparkled, and the full sleeves of the filmy tunic she wore fluttered. Silvery curls bouncing, she moved with the quick light step of a girl, although she had to be in her sixties.
“You’re Jessica Langdon, of course.” The woman caught Jessica’s hands in a warm, surprisingly strong grasp. “My dear, I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you. You’re the person I’ve been praying for.” Tears glistened suddenly in the green eyes. “You are just the person to defend Thomas in this terrible matter.”
That answered the question of whether Blake Morgan had really spoken for his mother. Jessica glanced at him over Mrs. Morgan’s shoulder. He had made one effort to get rid of the attorney his mother had hired, and Jessica suspected it wouldn’t be the last. At the moment, his glare seared.
She stared back, unmoved. She had more to lose in this situation than he did, and she was in this to stay.
CHAPTER TWO
TREY WAS FLOODED BY his usual mixture of frustration, affection and bemusement at his mother’s return. He’d been confident he’d deflected her attention long enough so he could send this Philadelphia lawyer packing. If he’d been able to get the woman’s name and cell number, he’d have headed her off before she’d ever reached here.
But Geneva Morgan, despite acting as if she had the attention span of a butterfly, inevitably disconcerted him by fixing on the one thing he wanted her to ignore. She’d been doing that since his first attempt to deceive her, having to do with a homemade slingshot and a broken window when he was six, and he shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d done it again today.
But today’s problem was considerably more serious than a broken window, and he didn’t want his mother to get hurt trying to defend someone the whole county thought was guilty of an ugly crime.
The Langdon woman stared at him, suspicion darkening blue eyes that had so much green in them they were almost turquoise. “I thought your name was Blake.”
His mother’s irrepressible laugh gurgled. “Blake Winston Morgan the Third, to be exact. Isn’t that a pompous name to hang on a helpless little baby?”
“Mom…” Business, Mom. This is business, remember?
“So I took one look at the pink cheeks and that fuzz of blond hair, and I decided to call him Trey. For three, you know.”
“I’m sure Ms. Langdon figured that out,” he said drily.
“It’s not my concern.” To his surprise, Jessica Langdon looked faintly embarrassed. “I just…” She paused, evading his gaze. “Perhaps we could clarify whether Mrs. Morgan wants me to continue with the case or not.”
“Of course I do.” His mother shot him a reproachful look. “Trey, we’ve been through this already. That poor boy couldn’t possibly have done what they say, and if no one else will stand up for him, I will. I spoke with his mother, and she agreed to let me handle getting a lawyer.”
“If I’m going to represent the young man, it would be helpful to know a bit more about the circumstances.” Ms. Langdon looked at his mother, probably figuring she wasn’t going to get anything out of him.
“Yes, of course. Do come and sit down. I don’t know why we’re standing here.” His mother led her to a seat on the Queen Anne chair and then perched on the arm of the sofa opposite, head tipped to one side, as if waiting for questions.
The Langdon woman opened her briefcase, took out a yellow legal pad and prepared to take notes. Trey couldn’t help it—his lips twitched at the image of the two of them, despite the seriousness of the situation. Mom, still seemingly caught in the ’60s of her youth, wore her usual filmy Indian-inspired tunic over a pair of jeans that were frayed at the knees. Her face was bare of makeup, and a favorite pair of turquoise-and-silver earrings dangled