Jasper rattled off the two men’s names and then pinned Jessica with a serious stare. “Melanie told me that you thought you saw Terry in the upstairs window of our old house.”
Melanie jumped to her feet and faced her husband. “I asked you not to bring that up again. Clearly this woman is insane, yet you invite her into our home and entertain her preposterous ideas of being framed?”
“I know what it sounds like,” Jessica interjected, drawing Melanie’s attention back to her. “But I swear to you, I’m telling the truth. If you don’t believe me, you can call Steven Ruckle. He’ll tell you I’m not making this up.”
“Steven Ruckle?” Melanie and Jasper simultaneously chorused.
Jessica looked from one to the other before focusing on a now standing Jasper. “You know Steven?”
“Unfortunately. The question is, how do you know him?”
“He was the reporter that covered your son’s disappearance. I found him through an internet search.”
A harsh laugh escaped Jasper. “Ruckle was more than some reporter who covered my son’s story. He was my wife’s lover.”
All the blood drained from Jessica’s face. She couldn’t have heard him right.
Shifting her stunned gaze to Melanie, Jessica swallowed around her disbelief. “Y-you…I…”
Melanie smoothed her palms down the front of her skirt. “Steven and I…became close during my employment for The Daily Sun.”
“Which, in my opinion,” Jasper ground out, “is the reason why he asked to be assigned to cover Terry’s disappearance. So that he could be closer to my wife.”
Swinging around to face her husband, Melanie’s hands flew to her hips. “Steven may have been a lot of things, but an opportunist he wasn’t. He would have never used our personal tragedy to his advantage like that.”
“Still defending him after all this time.” Jasper spun on his heel and headed toward the front door. “I need some air.”
Once the door shut behind her husband, Melanie returned to her seat. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Steven Ruckle is still a sore subject around here. Even though our…friendship was more than sixteen years ago.”
Jessica remained quiet, her mind still reeling with the knowledge that Melanie Dayton had been intimately involved with Steven. How could he have kept that piece of information from her? “I’m not here to judge you, Mrs. Dayton. I’m just hoping that you can help me figure out who would possibly want me gone bad enough to break in my home and to make it look as if I killed Sandy Weaver.”
The sound of a vehicle revved to life and then slowly faded as it moved away from the house. Obviously, Jasper had taken off.
Melanie tucked her pretty blonde hair behind her ears and glanced toward the door before returning her gaze to Jessica. “I have no idea who would do such a thing. But from what I remember of Sandy Weaver, she was a paranoid fruit cake who claimed to have seen my son buried in a shallow grave. With that being said, I’m sorry she died the way she did. No one deserves such a horrible death.”
“Then you must think I’m crazy as well,” Jessica whispered, remembering the last conversation she’d had with Melanie.
“Regardless of what I think, I know that you lost a child a few years ago…and for that, I am deeply sorry. If anyone understands the pain you’ve experienced, I do.”
Jessica fought back the tears that threatened and decided not to reiterate her encounters with Terry’s ghost to Melanie—at least for the time being. Right then, she needed the Daytons’ help in clearing her name. “Tell me about your relationship with Eustice Martin.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Owen Nobles paced the confines of his living room, heartsick and more than a little pissed off. Not only had Jessica pulled away from him both emotionally and physically, but she’d obviously replaced him with another man.
No, Jessica wouldn’t cheat on him, he thought, making another pass across the hard-wood floor. No matter how insane her current mental state happened to be.
He glanced at the clock on the wall, realizing it was nearing midnight. Where had Jessica gone? Her car remained in the driveway and according to their bank records, she hadn’t used her debit card since leaving the hospital.
The sudden sounds of sirens coming up the road jerked Owen out of his anxiety-induced thoughts. He moved to one of the windows at the front of his house and watched as several police cars whipped into Eustice Martin’s drive.
“What the hell?”
Four officers descended from the vehicles, weapons drawn.
Owen could only watch in amazement as the officers ducked low and stealthily slinked forward.
Two of the officers circled toward the back of the Martins’ home while the others made their way to the front of the house.
The door abruptly opened to reveal a sobbing Mrs. Martin. She staggered outside, her voice barely audible from the distance. She lifted an arm and pointed behind her.
One of the officers, took hold of her elbow and guided her to his patrol car as his partner cautiously entered the Martins’ home.
Owen rushed to the door, curiosity forcing him outside. He tightened the belt of his robe, watching as the officers soon gathered in the Martins’ front yard, their weapons holstered.
The rest of the neighborhood began filing onto the street, obviously curious about the commotion taking place in their midst.
Mrs. Hawthorn quickly ambled across the cul-de-sac, the curlers on her head, bouncing with every step she took. She stopped at the edge of Owen’s porch.
“What’s going on over there?” She nodded toward the Martins’ house.
“I don’t know, but Mrs. Martin is in the backseat of the police car. I haven’t seen Eustice, yet.”
“Maybe she finally had enough,” Marge sniffed, crossing her arms over her ample chest, “and took a frying pan to his skull.”
Owen lifted an eyebrow and glanced down at his nosy neighbor dressed in a dark-green robe.
“Well,” she stated defensively, “that’s what I would do.”
Marge suddenly glanced toward Owen’s open front door. “Is Jessica sleeping?”
Owen reached back and pulled the door closed. “She’s not home.”
“Really? Her car is in the drive.”
Grinding his teeth, Owen merely nodded and kept his gaze on the officers standing around in the Martins’ front yard.
A black van turned onto Meadowbrook Circle, carefully maneuvering past the crowds of onlookers before pulling up next to the patrol cars. Owen noticed the words CRIME SCENE INVESTGATION on the side of the van.
“Oh, my God.” Marge’s hand flew to her throat. “That can only mean one thing.”
Owen met the older woman’s gaze. “Apparently Eustice is dead.”
Marge’s face turned sheet white. “Geraldine killed Eustice?”
“Looks that way.” Owen glanced at Gerri’s silhouette, perched in the backseat of that patrol car. Though he couldn’t make out her features in the flashing red lights, he could tell that her shoulders slumped forward. In defeat or relief, he couldn’t be sure.
Marge abruptly fled Owen’s porch; her dark green robe flying out behind her as she ran toward the street where her husband now stood.
Owen could see her pointing toward the Martins’ place, her curlers bouncing around on her head with every word she uttered.
Returning his attention to the crime scene, Owen watched two individuals climb from the CSI van, holding some sort of black boxes in their hands. They trailed up to the front door and then disappeared inside.
The officers on scene abruptly dispersed in different directions. Some strode off down the street to question the onlookers, while one made his way toward Owen.
“Good evening,” Owen greeted as the officer stepped up onto the porch. “What’s going on over there?”
Pulling a small pad and pen from his shirt pocket, the officer sent Owen a curt nod. “Evening, Mister?”
“Nobles. Owen Nobles.”
The officer scratched down some words and then peered closely at Owen. “Did you happen to see or hear anything suspicious coming from next door this evening?”
Owen shook his head. “No, but I haven’t been up long. What happened over there?”