Chapter 3

“Killed your son?” Brogan stopped writing in his notebook to gape at the older woman. His gaze traveled to Melender, who clutched the squeegee and spray bottle. Clearly, she’d been caught off guard by the woman showing up at her place of employment and accusing her of murder.

“That’s right.” The cleaner’s accuser narrowed her eyes. “For a reporter, you don’t know much, do you?”

The woman had mistakenly assumed he knew about the death, but Brogan couldn’t recall anyone named Melender Harman connected with the killing of a toddler since he’d been at the Herald. He scrambled for a response that would mollify the woman in hopes of eliciting more information.

“I’ve been out of this area covering other stories for a while and only returned last year. Why don’t you fill me in on some of the details?”

Her lips thinned, but she complied. “Then allow me to catch you up.” Sarcasm clung to every word like kudzu on a roadside sign. “I’m Ruby Harman Thompson. My husband is Quentin Thompson of Thompson Energy.”

That explained the expensive air the woman wore like an invisible mink coat.

Mrs. Thompson continued, “Nineteen years ago, my brother’s only child—Melender Harman—killed my son Jesse.”

A cold case. Brogan frowned. It seemed unlikely the police would let the murder of a toddler go unsolved for nearly two decades. Before Brogan could question Mrs. Thompson, an older man with silver-streaked hair and wire-rimmed glasses hurried into the store.

“Ruby!” He stopped short at the sight of the four of them standing near the windows.

“Quentin.” Mrs. Thompson pointed a finger at Melender. “The person who killed my baby is being called a heroine.” Mrs. Thompson started crying, sobs shaking her thin shoulders. “In the name of God, why won’t she tell me where my baby is so I can bring him home!”

Mr. Thompson pulled his wife into his arms, his hand rubbing her back. “Now, Ruby. Calm down.” The man barely gave Brogan and Seth a second glance and only flicked his gaze to Melender for a split second before refocusing on his wife. “This isn’t the time or the place for this.”

“I don’t care. I had to let her know we haven’t forgotten what she did.”

“I know, my dear.” The older man cradled his wife as if she were a piece of porcelain.

“Mr. Thompson? I’m Brogan Gilmore with the Northern Virginia Herald.” Brogan spoke quickly, sensing that Thompson was about to bolt with his wife. “May I call you at a more convenient time to speak to you and your wife about this matter?”

“Please, Quentin,” Mrs. Thompson said as she pushed away from her husband. “Say you’ll speak to him. We have to get the truth out about what she did.”

He barely glanced Brogan’s way as he answered. “Call my office on Monday.”

Brogan jotted the date in his notebook, biting back the flood of questions that threatened to trip off his tongue.

“It’s very late.” Mr. Thompson spoke softly to his wife. “Let’s go home.”

At his words, Mrs. Thompson frowned. “I’m not ready to go yet.”

“Come along, my dear.” Mr. Thompson guided her to the door with a firm hand on her back.

Mrs. Thompson started to argue, but her husband leaned down and whispered something in her ear. Then the older woman turned to spear Brogan with a glance. “Mr. Gilmore, I expect your next story to have the truth about this person. People need to know she’s not heroic at all.”

As the Thompsons left the store, Brogan nodded to acknowledge her words. Already, his fingers itched to get to his computer to search for what had happened to little Jesse Thompson.

Beside him, Seth blew out a breath. “Wow, that was kind of wild. And here I thought this would be a rather humdrum assignment.” He leaned closer to Brogan. “Want me to snap a few pics of her working?”

Brogan had nearly forgotten Melender’s presence. He could have sworn he’d seen tears in her eyes when Mrs. Thompson accused her of killing Jesse, but now she ran her squeegee down a window as if nothing had happened. Until he knew more, he would be careful not to antagonize Melender. If there was a bigger story here, he needed to make sure he would have access to the key players.

“She doesn’t want her photo taken.”

Seth fiddled with his camera lens. “What if we didn’t show her face?”

Brogan considered it. “Let me ask.” He walked a few steps toward Melender. “Ms. Harman?”

Melender wiped down the squeegee with a rag, keeping her head down. “I’m working.”

“Would it be okay if we took some photos of you working? We wouldn’t show your face.” Her movements didn’t slow. Brogan tried again. “My editor can be rather cranky, and he insisted the follow up story include a photo of you. After all, your quick actions did thwart the robbery.”

The door’s bell chimed as four firefighters came in. Brogan inched closer to her as she moved the racks back into place then picked up her spray bottle, her gaze still directed away from him. “Look, I won’t mention what happened here tonight in my follow up piece on the robberies.”

Melender threw him a look. The sadness in her eyes surprised him. He’d expected anger or frustration, not sorrow that ran deep below the surface.

“It doesn’t matter.” She moved past him toward the back of the store.

He followed on her heels, motioning to Seth to stay put for now. “What doesn’t matter?”

She put the squeegee and bottle into a supply caddy, then grabbed a push broom. “You’re going to go back and write the follow up story before Googling Jesse Thompson.”

“And what will I find?”

Melender gripped the broom with both hands, turning the knuckles white. “Please don’t bother me at work again. I have no interest in talking to you or any other reporter.” With that, she pushed the broom down the aisle.

As he rejoined Seth at the front, Brogan contemplated her words, telling his colleague no photo for now. As Brogan drove them back to the office, he mentally composed his lead to the follow up piece. Melender was right. He would finish the assigned story—and then find out what happened to Jesse Thompson.

* * *

Quentin Thompson utteredan expletive as his wife continued to sob against his shoulder in the back of the Lincoln. Ruby had been determined to confront Melender in the hopes the girl—now a grown woman—would finally reveal the whereabouts of Jesse’s body. It had taken nearly eight months for his wife to track her niece down. Quentin admired Ruby’s tenacity, but living with her grief for nearly two decades had eroded his patience. He felt the loss of their son just as keenly, but he hadn’t let it derail him completely. Why couldn’t the woman simply move on with her life?

He rubbed Ruby’s back again, his mind not on comforting his wife but on how to handle Melender. Even as a teenager, his niece had exhibited a stubbornness indicative of her Appalachian heritage, forged by generations of people eking out a hard living in one of the poorest places in the United States. Ruby had that same stubborn streak, although she loathed to admit to a comparison with Melender on anything.

“Quentin?”

“Yes, dear?” Glancing down at his wife’s beautiful yet tear-streaked face, Quentin recalled his first glimpse of Ruby at the reception desk of his company nearly twenty-five years ago. Her graceful movements as she answered the phone and greeted visitors had fascinated him. He smiled even now at the image of how the cream-colored linen sheath she wore accentuated her slender figure and tanned body. On impulse, he’d asked her to lunch, and within three months, he had married her. Only later did he find out about Ruby’s hillbilly past.

“She shouldn’t be able to go about her life as if nothing had happened.” Ruby righted herself, then flicked open a lighted makeup mirror she kept tucked into a seat pocket of the car. She dabbed at her mascara-streaked cheeks with a handkerchief she’d pulled from her purse. Her mercurial moods never ceased to amaze him. She retrieved a compact and began to repair the damage her tears had caused. “We need to bring Jesse home.”

As she applied fresh lipstick to her collagen-injected lips, a familiar stab of desire shot through Quentin. Despite her frequent bouts with grief, he still fiercely craved his wife. He brushed his hand over her smooth hair. “Don’t worry, my love. She’ll come around.” Even if I have to resort to more persuasive methods.

“There’s no reason why she won’t tell us other than pure spite.” Ruby recapped her lipstick and dropped it back into her purse. “She’s always hated me for taking her away from the homestead.”

Quentin didn’t contradict his wife, but not for the first time, he wondered at Ruby’s ability to see only what she wanted to see. It wasn’t that Ruby, as the only living relative with the means to take on a teenager, wasn’t partially right. Melender had been melancholy about leaving her beloved mountains. However, Quentin suspected Melender’s quietness stemmed more from losing her father and grandmother within months of each other than moving from the country to the city.

“That’s why she did it, you know,” Ruby continued, her voice taking on a peevish edge. “She wanted to punish me for taking her away.” Fresh tears sprang to her eyes.

He patted his wife’s hand. If only Ruby talked less, their relationship would be much more enjoyable. “My dear, I think you should take one of your pills. I hate to see you so upset.”

Ruby nodded. “Of course, you’re right. This has been a very trying time for me.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the bottle of pills her doctor had prescribed at Quentin’s insistence to help moderate his wife’s mood swings. After swallowing a pill with a sip from a water bottle, she replaced the medication container in her purse. Resting her head against his shoulder, she closed her eyes.

Within a few minutes, she drifted off to sleep, whether from the pill or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell.

Quentin gently leaned her head against the opposite door and pulled out his cell phone. The soundproof privacy glass shielded his conversation from his driver. Connecting the call, he held the phone to his ear.

“Montgomery speaking.”

“Quentin Thompson.”

A short pause, then Montgomery said, “What can I do for you?”

Quentin smiled. It was always good policy to have leverage over people from whom you wanted favors. In Montgomery’s case, he’d scrounged up some interesting tidbits a man with political ambitions would rather keep locked away. “My wife found her.”

“What happened?” Montgomery asked.

Quentin succinctly relayed the situation. “She’s not going to stop.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to do about it.” Montgomery’s irritation sounded loud and clear over the cell phone.

Quentin bit back the word he wanted to call the other man. “I’ve already shown you my support. It’s time you showed me yours.” He let the implication hang in the air.

Montgomery grunted. “Listen, I can have the police pay her a visit based on a citizen complaint, but that’s about all I can do. These people have rights too, and I can’t have my name linked to anything that smacks of harassment, not with this being an election year.”

That would have to do for now. Melender wasn’t stupid, and perhaps a friendly reminder that she would always be on the police’s radar would be a good thing. He punched off the call without saying goodbye.

As the car pulled into their driveway, Quentin tapped his fingers on his knee. Melender wouldn’t be as easy to influence as she had been at eighteen. If she remembered the map and a certain conversation with a senator, things could get even trickier. He would have to be very careful, or everything he’d accomplished could cave in like an old mining shaft.