A Justified Murder (Medlar Mystery #2)(32)

“I don’t see how you saw anything since you were beating on that bag so hard. Do you really think Gil had something to do with Mrs. Beeson’s murder? You think he’s the person Sheriff Flynn is about to arrest?”

“I don’t know and don’t change the subject. You were on the phone for at least thirty minutes. What’s the problem?”

When Kate didn’t answer right away, he tossed the lap robe back and began to massage her bare feet.

Kate closed her eyes. “I may turn into a bowl of warm Jell-O.” When she looked at him, he was smiling in a way that was an invitation to a lot more than a foot rub. She pulled her feet out of his lap and sat up.

“Who were you talking to on the phone?”

“My lover.”

He gave a snort.

“Okay,” she said. “My mother.”

“Was she in one of her depression bouts?”

Kate drew her legs to her chest and put her arms around them. “No. She was happier than I’ve ever heard her.” She looked at Jack. “Remember I told you that she used to fly to New York to buy fabric to make clothes for me?”

“Yes.”

“Every time she returned, she’d have a serious attack. I’d come home from school and she’d be curled up on the floor. It was really hard to coax her into bed or even into the bathroom.”

“You did this when you were in elementary school?” He sounded shocked.

Kate nodded. “And high school and when I came home on weekends from college. I thought her trips were the cause. I thought...”

“What?”

“That being away from me was the cause of her misery. I thought she missed me so much that...” Tears were coming.

Jack reached out his arm to put around her and drew her head to his shoulder. “What happened today?”

“She’s in New York and she’s been there for a week and she’s happy.”

“Isn’t that good?”

She pushed away from him. “Don’t you see? Maybe all her depression bouts were because she had to come back to me. Maybe I was the cause of them. Now that she’s free, she’s happy.” She put her hands over her face, fighting back tears.

Jack pulled her hands away and made her look at him. “You are not the cause of your mother’s depression. You didn’t make it happen and you aren’t taking it away. None of this is about you.”

Kate sniffed. “But it was just us. One of us had to—”

“Really?” Jack’s voice was firm. “You’re saying that you are responsible for every feeling she has? Pretty powerful, aren’t you?”

“I’m not. I just...” She sniffed again. “Maybe I’m hurt because she’s so happy without me.”

“And how are you doing without her? Living in misery?”

“I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my life,” she said softly.

“What was that?”

Kate stood up. “You heard me. I’m going to bed. Tomorrow I want to sell at least three houses and I don’t want to think about Sylvia or Tayla or Janet or Gil.”

“Or about your mother. Hey! You ever think she might have a boyfriend? If she’s happy in New York, maybe it’s some Wall Street guy in a three-piece suit. Or do they all wear suspenders now?”

Kate gave a bit of a smile. “Thanks,” she said, then disappeared into her rooms. He really had made her feel better.



Eight


KATE SLEPT LATE the next morning, awoke smiling, and hummed while she dressed. It was going to be a good day. No murder would fill her mind, and thanks to Jack, she felt less worried about her mother. He was probably right. Maybe something had happened that had nothing to do with her. Maybe—

She had her hand on the door into the house when she heard her aunt say, “Absolutely not. I refuse.”

Jack said, “You owe the man so you are going.”

Kate stepped into the room. Jack and Sara were glaring at each other across the kitchen counter. “Should I get the boxing gloves?”

Sara, her mouth in a grimace of anger, said, “Tell her what you want me to do.”

He turned to Kate. “Arthur Niederman has invited all of us to tea at his house at four today. I think we should go, but Medlar here says no.”

Kate went to the kitchen and got a cereal bowl out of a cabinet. “I take it this has to do with the book Arthur wants you to read.”

“Go on,” Jack said to Sara. “Tell her the rest of it.”

“The book is awful.”

“And you don’t want to tell him that,” Kate said. “I understand.”

“It’s more than that,” Sara said. “I’ve read dozens of unpublished novels and I’ve always been truthful about them. But without exception, the writers hate me. Not dislike, hate. That’s because they all expect me to tell them their book is so fabulous that I turned it over to my agent and he got them a ten-million-dollar movie deal.”

Kate gave a little laugh but Jack and Sara were looking at her seriously. “You’re joking, right?”

“Not at all,” Jack said. “Two years ago my mother conned Sara into reading the manuscript of a friend. Sara nicely told her the book needed work, and even told her how to change it. The woman got so angry I had to protect our Sara from the, uh, less than friendly language.”