Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson #11)(46)

“Right. Sorry.” The Taft conundrum had rattled my brain.

“They live in a mobile home park called Green Valley.”

“Oh, perfect. Shoot me the address, and I’ll head over.”

“Will do. So, why does Robert think you’re at home?”

“He does? That’s strange.”

“Charley,” she said, her voice taking on an ominous note. “I’m not going to lie to my husband for you.”

“What? Why? I’d totally lie for you.”

“Yes, but you like to lie. You see it as a challenge. Probably because you’re so bad at it.”

“Wow. And the hits just keep coming.”

“Be careful,” she said, her tone more amused than concerned.

“I’m not promising anything.” I hung up, pulled a U-ey to hit up the closest drive-thru, then headed off to find Veronica Isom, praying she’d talk to me.

Twenty minutes and half a mocha latte later, I pulled into the Green Valley Mobile Home Park off Fourth. Her parents had a well-taken-care-of mobile. Avocado green. It made me hungry for guacamole. And in turn I realized how close the park was to El Bruno’s. So close I could smell the green chile roasting, flooding my mouth with anticipation. And saliva. Mostly saliva.

My stomach growled as I journeyed up the Isoms’ walk. I knocked on the metal door and waited. A TV played softly in the background, and there was a car in the drive, but I didn’t get an answer at the door until I’d knocked three more times. And the greeter was not happy that I’d been so persistent.

An older gentleman jerked open the door.

“Mr. Isom?” I asked, praying he’d give me a few seconds to convince him to give me more.

He glared. He had bushy brows and a faded blue work shirt with an Auto Crafters emblem on it. He was a body man. I could totally relate to body men. And, well, pretty much any men.

“I am so sorry to bother you, but I may—and this is a big may—be able to help in your daughter’s case.”

That got his attention, but not in the way I’d suspected. “The only thing my daughter needs help with is signing the plea agreement the DA offered. Can you help her do that?”

My heart sank. He, like probably the rest of the city, believed his daughter guilty of murdering her child. Either that or he saw no way to win regardless. This could be a tough sell.

“Is she here, Mr. Isom?”

He glared again, and I felt a distinct disdain wafting off him. My gut told me he was only helping her out of loyalty. Out of a sense of fatherly duty. But his heart had been raked over the coals. I could tell.

“My name is Charley Davidson. I’m a private investigator, and I think my current case directly relates to your daughter’s. Mr. Isom, I truly believe that your daughter is innocent of the charges against her.”

“And what makes you so sure?” he asked. But he only did so to prove me wrong. He didn’t believe for a minute she was innocent.

“Because the same people who pretended to have an adoption agency, the ones who took your granddaughter, kidnapped my husband when he was a baby, as well as at least one other boy that we know of.”

He straightened but still held the screen door, barring any thought I might have of entering. “There was no agency.”

“There was,” I argued. “And I have proof.” I didn’t, not anything physical, anyway, but he didn’t need to know that.

He stewed on my words a moment, then yelled, “Roni!”

A woman came to the door having just gotten out of the shower.

“This woman has bought your story hook, line, and sinker. You two should have a great time together.”

Okay. Well, that’d work.

“I’m Charley Davidson,” I said before he could throw any more sarcasm my way, “and I know you’re telling the truth.”

She went completely still. Mr. Isom walked away, the door almost closing behind him. But Veronica recovered and pushed the screen door wider.

“Come in.”

Veronica had long dark hair that hung over her shoulders in wet clumps, big bourbon-colored eyes, and a curvy figure. She’d been towel-drying her hair and picked up where she’d left off, squeezing the ends with the damp towel.

I navigated the steps to a rickety porch and stepped inside. There were toys strewn about the small mobile home.

“My nephew’s. He’s at the store with my mother,” she said, explaining the clutter. She kicked a few toys out of the way and offered me a seat. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

It was a sweet gesture. Inside, her pulse pounded like a war drum. Her hands shook as they pressed water from her hair. And there was something unnatural about her movements. They were stiff. Anxious. The strong elixir of hope and fear had rendered her partially paralyzed.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.”

When she sat down, she put the towel aside and pressed her shaking hands onto her lap. Then waited. No, hoped. Prayed. Begged.

“Veronica, the couple that approached you all those years ago, do you remember what looked like?”

“How did you hear about the case?” she asked, suddenly confused. “Are you working with my public defender?”

“No. I’m sorry, I should’ve explained. I’m a private investigator. I’m working on another case that is peripheral to yours.”