Guilt by Association (A Murder in the Mountains Book 3) Read online

  Other Books by Heather Day Gilbert:

  Miranda Warning, Book One in A Murder in the Mountains Series

  Trial by Twelve, Book Two in A Murder in the Mountains Series

  Out of Circulation, Book One in the Hemlock Creek Suspense Series

  Undercut, Book Two in the Hemlock Creek Suspense Series

  God’s Daughter, Book One in the Vikings of the New World Saga

  Forest Child, Book Two in the Vikings of the New World Saga

  The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

  Indie Publishing Handbook: Four Key Elements for the Self-Publisher

  Guilt by Association

  A Murder in the Mountains Novel

  3

  Heather Day Gilbert

  Guilt by Association

  By: Heather Day Gilbert

  Copyright 2017 Heather Day Gilbert

  ISBN: 978-0-9978279-2-7

  Cover Design by Jenny Zemanek of Seedlings Design Studio

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  Published by WoodHaven Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Series: Gilbert, Heather Day. A Murder in the Mountains series; 3

  Subject: Detective and Mystery Stories; Genre: Mystery Fiction

  Author Information: http://www.heatherdaygilbert.com

  Author Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/Q6w6X

  Dedicated to the foster and adoptive parents who’ve jumped through all the seemingly endless hoops and stepped into the line of fire to love and rescue the children who couldn’t save themselves.

  And to those who’ve given of their time and resources to create safe havens where addicts can rehabilitate and rebuild their lives.

  The world needs more people like you.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  Jane’s Rhubarb Cake

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The most satisfaction I have ever experienced as a parent was to stand behind you in your successes, to watch you reach your potential. To know that on some level, you represent your family to the world at large.

  But then something shifted, and you no longer wanted to spend time with your own blood. Your wayward peers stepped in, circling you like vultures, and they carried you off with them. Suddenly, you were too far gone.

  I blame myself, of course. All that psychological nonsense about letting teens set their own boundaries, all those lies about giving you space to sow your oats—I can finally see through that. But it’s too late. I have dropped the ball too many times. Now you’ve finally reappeared in our lives, but I can do nothing to protect you unless you start talking to me again.

  I swear to you, I will make things right. Someday, you are going to stand again, and you are going to make us all proud.

  But I will not count those blameless who have led you so very far astray.

  1

  “You sure you’re okay with this, Tess?” My mother-in-law, Nikki Jo, pulls a red coffee cup from her cabinet. She knows how uncomfortable I am with the latest call from my mom.

  “I think so. The temp agency won’t mind if I take a day off, and if you don’t mind watching Mira Brooke…”

  Nikki Jo gives her highlighted blonde layers a violent shake and pours liberal creamer into my coffee. “Never. I always have time for your girlie. Now what’s your momma need, again?”

  Good question. My mom’s only been out of prison three months—it took longer for her release than she initially thought—and lately, she keeps calling me up, almost as if I need to walk her through the most basic things, like how to make fried chicken, how to use a debit card to pump gas, or how to sort laundry. I know she never was a housekeeper, and I know she’s been incarcerated for years, but it’s like she’s suffering some kind of memory loss.

  Her latest request that I visit apparently stems from her attempt to buy a “real house” like mine, versus the broken-down trailer she’s still living in. A good idea, since I doubt if the ramshackle abode of my childhood can make it through many more winters.

  “She mentioned something about a realtor.” I take a deep, invigorating slurp of the vanilla brew.

  Nikki Jo pushes the basket of biscuits toward me, as well as a jar of her homemade peach jam. “I figure she’s kind of at loose ends, living there all by herself, don’t you?”

  Nikki Jo, bless her heart, can’t possibly grasp how resourceful my mom can be. Like the time she offered to babysit the neighbors’ kids for extra income, then left them in my preteen hands for an entire two weeks so she could hit bars during the day.

  I sink my teeth into the flaky biscuit, hoping my sour memories will float away. Mira Brooke squeals in the living room, where she’s playing with my brother-in-law, Petey.

  “Maybe,” I mumble.

  Nikki Jo leans across the table. Her hazelnut gaze flits over my face. There’s something about her brown eyes, so similar to my husband Thomas’, that seems to cut through my defenses and shine a light right into my heart.

  She pats my hand. “I know you’re nervous, hon. But Thomas said Pearletta has changed.”

  Whether Pearletta Vee Lilly has changed or not remains to be seen. And I really wish I didn’t have to be the one to see it.

  Thomas gets home at nine, just as I’m pulling on my PJs. Although we’d hoped his hours would be shorter with his new prosecuting attorney position, he’s actually been staying later.

  He pulls off his shirt and tie, then gives me a suggestive look and flexes his tricep.

  I’m too stressed to take his hottie bait. “Hon, I’m driving over to Boone to see my mom tomorrow, so I need to get some sleep. Your food’s down on the stove.”

  He clasps his chest. “Shot through the heart, babe. But I might survive.” He strides over and strokes my hair out of my face. His strong hand presses into my lower back and he pulls me into a tight embrace. “You just smell so clean and fruity and delicious.” His lips close over mine and by the time he releases me, I give a little gasp.

  He gives a triumphant grin. “You were saying…?”

  I sigh, dropping back into reality with a thud. “I should be back late tomorrow night. Your mom will keep Mira Brooke up there, and I’m sure she’ll drop some food off for your supper. You’ll just need to feed Velvet.”

  Hearing her name, our white kitty uncurls from the foot of my bed and curls around my leg expectantly.

  “No problem,” he says. “And hey, guess who I saw today?” He doesn’t give me time to guess. “Detective Tucker. Or I guess you know him as Zeke.”

  Thomas still can’t believe his superhero homicide detective lets me call him by his first name.

  “Well, I guess if you’d helped him catch a
serial killer, he might let you call him Zeke, too.”

  “Very funny. And by the way, don’t be doing that again.”

  “Not in my plans—for the rest of my life.”

  “Good. Anyway, Zeke said you should give him a call sometime.” He heads downstairs to eat, so I snuggle under the red-and-blue star patterned quilt on our bed. Nikki Jo gave this to me—quilted by her grandmother—and every time I lie on it, I feel like I’m part of something bigger than myself. Something stable.

  My drive to Boone gives me lots of time to think—too much time. As I wind through the greened-up mountains, I wish I’d loaded an audiobook to my phone. Instead, I sing my favorite hymns and mentally gear up for this meeting.

  I won’t go into Mom’s trailer, since that’s the root cause of the claustrophobic issues I have to this day. We can just head right out to look at houses, I can give some input, then I can drive home.

  The scenery looks the same as always. So many houses sit on the high, cleared sides of the mountains. I hold my breath every time I pass someone riding a mower along the vertical hillside of a front yard. One modern mountainside house actually has goats lounging on the driveway, soaking up some sun.

  As I get closer to Mom’s, the long shadow of coal mining covers everything. Huge overhead pipes, coal tipples, and cleaning stations occur at regular intervals—some abandoned, some in use. Tops of mountains that were once scraped clean of trees for mining are now covered in low green growth. Towns are sprinkled with vacant buildings and burned-out houses.

  Finally, the sign for Jasper Branch Road comes into view. It has multiple bullet holes in it, like most of the road signs around here. I’ve yet to figure out how people manage to position themselves on the side of the road to aim at them, much less why no one living behind the signs has gotten hit.

  I pull off the main road, my SUV rattling across a board bridge that sits astride a half-dried creek. Dead ahead is a familiar rusted gate, still emblazoned with a faded sign reading Scots’ Hollow Trailer Park.

  I roll through the park, glancing around. There’s a utilitarian vibe here, probably because there are no trees to break up the rows of houses. The only trees in sight edge the back of the park, near Mom’s place. Most trailers are older, the same era as Mom’s, but many have been spruced up with flags or decorative planters.

  Although I drive slowly down the dirt lane that connects the homes, I’m forced to slam on my brakes when a small boy darts in front of me as he chases a ball. I roll down my window, hoping to stop him from doing this again.

  “Hey! You need to be careful! Didn’t you see me coming?”

  The tow-headed child looks at me, but gives no response. Instead, he deliberately starts bouncing the neon pink ball, smacking it hard against the ground. His cheeks are dirt-smudged and his shocking blue eyes are protected by a thick line of blond lashes. His too-short shorts expose knobby knees, and he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, which is way too hot for this weather.

  Some inherent recognition stirs in me. He might be hiding bruises with those sleeves. And the way he’s looking at me—like he wouldn’t care if he had been run over—speaks louder than a verbal response ever could.

  My childhood memories suck me under. While Mom never beat me, desperation and hopelessness are feelings I surely understand.

  I soften my tone. “You be careful, okay? Take care of yourself.”

  Mom’s trailer is around the next curve, so I inch toward it. In my rearview mirror, I watch the boy skitter up to a broken-down porch and drop onto the step, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

  I rap at Mom’s door, already eager to leave. The park always seems to be shrouded in shadows, both literal and figurative.

  I hear her heavy shuffling and she finally opens the flimsy door. She’s wearing a blue tank top and a loose floral skirt. “Tessa Brooke! Come on in and have yourself a sandwich before we go.”

  “Thanks, Mom, but I ate a while ago. Already had coffee, too. Didn’t you say your realtor appointment was at noon?”

  “More like twelve-thirty. So we have time to catch up.”

  That’s the very last thing I want to do, since Mom has no chairs on the porch, which means we’d have to sit—

  “Come on in,” she repeats.

  “We could just stand here and talk. It’s nice out,” I lie.

  “What? In this heat? Come sit on the couch. Sally gave me her couch and it’s practically new.”

  Out of excuses, I take a deep breath and follow Mom inside. Most of the furniture looks the same, but she’s definitely made an effort to make the place more homey. A candle flickers on the kitchen counter and realistic silk flowers are positioned in small vases in the living room.

  I settle into the new couch, which is quite upscale.

  “Who’s Sally again?”

  She pulls her unnaturally bronze hair off her face and glances around. She finds a ponytail holder and shoves her hair through it. “Sally’s a neighbor. Has a kid.”

  “A boy?”

  Mom shakes her head. “Teen daughter—a real handful.”

  Anyone who is deemed “a real handful” by Pearletta Vee Lilly must be pretty far gone. I brush my overgrown, sweaty bangs out of my eyes, wishing Mom had more powerful air conditioning. The heat only adds to my irritation at the world in general for letting kids run wild. “Well, the person who has that little blond boy needs to keep better tabs on him. I nearly ran into him out there!”

  “He lives with his grandma. It’s sad—his momma left him for drugs. Sally thinks her girl’s on them, too.”

  I actually don’t want to know that drugs are still running rampant in this park. I don’t want to know they’ve claimed more young victims, like the teen addicts my mom used to deal her prescription meds to. But at least Mom is finally talking like drugs are the enemy, so apparently her prison time wasn’t in vain.

  “I hate to hear that,” I say.

  Mom lumbers over to the kitchen. “I need to get something to eat before we go. The realtor, Samuel, will be coming to pick us up.”

  From her emphasis on his name, I figure she finds the man attractive. My mom finds most men attractive.

  She’s just whipped up a peanut-butter sandwich when her front door begins to shake with a frantic knocking.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, hoping the little boy hasn’t gotten run over. I stride over in two steps and throw the door open. “Yes?”

  The man in front of me is in his forties and somewhat handsome. But his eyes dart past me, scanning the living room for something.

  His words are punctuated with urgency. “You have to help. You have to call the police. Outside your trailer. There’s a dead boy.”

  2

  Mom shouts from the kitchen. “Samuel? What’s going on?”

  I yell at Mom, not even waiting to see if Samuel is right. “Call the cops!”

  I shove the small man out of my way and bound down the rickety steps, scanning the front of the trailer. I see no body.

  “Where—?”

  Samuel leans out the doorway, pointing toward the end of Mom’s trailer. I walk in that direction, hoping against hope that the realtor was mistaken and the boy is still breathing. How could the child have been knocked that far from the road? Had Samuel been racing through and hit him?

  I walk across the stubby grass until I round the corner, surprised by some brilliant red-pink poppies that have sprung up near the base of the trailer. Is it possible those seed packets I planted so many years ago, praying for splashes of color in my monochromatic life, finally took root?

  Breaking my preoccupation with the stunning poppies, I look at the ground. Just a few steps in front of me, a body lies face-down, but it’s not the blond child. This is a teenage boy with scraggly brown hair, and it’s obvious he’s not breathing. His fingertips are a weird blue shade. My first thought is cyanide poisoning, but I’ve probably read too many mysteries. Still, there’s no way his fingers are blue because he was too c
old. It’s pushing ninety degrees out here.

  “Mom!” I shout.

  Mom peeks around the corner, her tone strangely subdued. “I’m here. I called the police and they’re on the way.” She steps closer. “That looks like the boy who’s been seeing Sally’s daughter, Ruby, but I’m not sure.”

  “Just seeing her? Or do you think he’s tangled up in drugs, too?”

  Mom reflects a moment. She focuses on the side of the trailer instead of on the sprawled body in front of us.

  “I guess he could be. Sally said they were always together these last few months. Say, you don’t think the cops are going to suspect me or something, do you?”

  I hedge. “They know your record, so if this ties in with drugs, they might have to follow up. But you’re clean now, right?”

  I tack that last question on like it’s an afterthought, when really it’s been my only thought since Mom moved back into her trailer.

  Mom shrugs. “Of course. I wouldn’t go back to it.” She takes a glance at the boy and makes a slight gagging noise. “I’ll wait inside.”

  As she rushes back toward the porch, I take in all the details I can. The dead teen has some serious bed-head, like he hasn’t washed his hair for days. But his clothes look newer and they’re clean. I’m so tempted to turn him over, but I wouldn’t dare. His black flip-flops dangle loosely from his feet.

  Something bright blue protrudes from under his chest. I step closer and nudge at it with my foot. It’s a plastic-coated ID that’s flipped face-up so I can make out his picture. I lean down and try to read the partially-hidden words.