Chapter 9 JEMMA #2
‘You sound like you’re ready to call in the heavies, Dad.
’ She generally only used his title to placate him.
The last thing she needed was anyone to look out for her.
‘It’s nothing, just internal politics because the partnership is on the table.
I didn’t make the pickup, the police didn’t arrest me; I can’t be implicated in any wrongdoing.
At least now I’m fully aware what Rohan is capable of.
’ She was oversimplifying, but this wasn’t something that Dad, even with the best intentions in the world, could fix.
‘Anyway, Sam promised me a tour of Pelicanet.’ She patted her stomach.
‘And if we don’t move right now, I might never be able to get off the chair. ’
She’d always been good at compartmentalising, a necessary skill in a career that delved into the seedier side of the human psyche.
Now she focused on admiring the vessel—easily done, as it was truly beautiful throughout, encapsulating the glory and magnificence of the era of riverboat travel, highlighted by a series of sepia prints hung in the passageway that led to the rear deck.
Aware that Hamish was in the wheelhouse above, she deliberately stayed on the water-level deck.
She didn’t have the mental capacity to engage in wordplay right now.
They cruised upriver for about an hour and a quarter.
Other than explaining that the return leg would be shorter because they’d travel with the current, visible in the cappuccino-foam swirl of water around the occasional island graveyards of branches and debris, Dad remained silent.
Sam fussed, several times starting conversations destined to contain a caution, but Jemma swiftly terminated them with a change of subject.
By early afternoon, they’d pulled back against the wharf, the boat chuntering in to nudge the timber pylons. Dad threw a thick rope over the mooring post as Hamish held Pelicanet steady by throttling and easing the engines.
She’d hoped to make an escape without seeing him again, but as the engines cut, returning the river to comparative silence, Hamish bounded down the narrow stairs that led to the wheelhouse.
Seizing the gangplank, he hefted it over Pelicanet’s side, creating a bridge between vessel and dock. Then he offered his hand to Jemma.
She took his hand reflexively, then flinched. She rarely touched anyone other than with a firm handshake or to embrace her family. Skin on skin in this way felt oddly intimate.
‘Nice to have you aboard, ma’am,’ Hamish said in an atrocious imitation of a Southern drawl. ‘Hope to have the pleasure of your company again soon.’
She narrowed her eyes.
‘It’s a small town,’ he added with a grin.
‘Next you’re going to tell me that you’re related to Sam and you’re also headed out to her grandparents’ place?’
Hamish looked over her head, to where Sam and Dad waited to disembark.
‘We probably are related somewhere along the way, right, Sam? But no more socialising today. I’ve got to put in some hours of actual work.
You know, that patting-cute-animals stuff.
Plus, the rain’s coming in this week—got to have everything ready for seeding. ’
‘I didn’t think rain was predicted?’ Why was she prolonging the conversation, particularly with such a mundane topic?
Hamish leaned closer, as though sharing a secret. ‘It’s more a positive manifestation kind of deal. But let’s keep that between us.’
How had she not noticed the Delft blue shade of his eyes before?
Jemma jerked her hand back.
In the twenty minutes it took to drive to Sam’s grandparents’ farm, Dad filled her in on the basics: Paul and Evie had raised Sam and her brother, Jack.
Jack still worked the family farm, along with his own more sustainably focused property.
Their grandparents were looking for the most tax-advantageous way to leave the farm to the two grandchildren.
‘Easy enough,’ Jemma responded, mentally running through what she knew of the benefits of family trusts and living wills.
Dad glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Maybe not so easy, when you’re discussing the mortality of someone you love,’ he cautioned. His free hand reached for Sam’s, bringing it to rest on his thigh.
Great, he wanted compassion. He should have realised that Jemma tried to avoid anything emotional, anything that could leave lasting scars.
‘I can give basic advice. But, like I said, you’ll need an estate lawyer to draw up paperwork,’ she said, trying to reinforce that her input would remain purely businesslike.
She shouldn’t have worried. It seemed the last thing Paul and Evie Schenscher wanted to discuss was their demise, imminent or otherwise. Their ancient farmhouse, although large, seemed crammed with life and movement.
Her voice raised over the noise of multiple conversations, the rather alarming grinding of an old fridge, and the unnecessary background of a local radio station, Sam introduced her grandparents.
Her brother, Jack, and his partner, Lucie, both of whom Jemma had met at the Turkish restaurant, sat at an old kitchen table that had seen better days.
Paul was on the floor with Keeley. There had to be at least seventy years between the pair, yet both seemed equally enthralled by the half-dozen squirming toffee-brown puppies on a wool-stuffed hessian bag.
The bitch lay to one side, head on her paws, looking relieved to be free of her litter for a while.
Evie had Lucie and Jack’s infant son on her lap.
Sam gave her grandmother and Lucie a single-armed hug each. ‘I don’t know how long you guys have been here, Lucie, but I’m positive it’s my turn to hold Gus.’ She reached for the baby but Evie tightened her grip.
‘You can have him when he cries.’
‘We all know Gus never cries,’ Sam said, letting the baby clutch her finger.
‘Like he ever gets a chance to,’ Jack replied. He nodded at Jemma. ‘Hi. Grab a seat among the chaos.’
The extra chairs around the table were piled with calico nappy bags and a box with the fluffy lime tops of celery poking out among the rich green of spinach and vibrant beet stems. Jemma moved to lift a wicker picnic basket from the remaining seat, but startled back at a ferocious growl.
‘Dash!’ Keeley reprimanded, barely glancing over as she cuddled a puppy so it could lick her chin.
‘Just put him on the floor,’ Lucie said.
‘Him?’ Jemma wasn’t sure whether Lucie was addressing her or her daughter.
‘Open the basket and see.’ Paul chortled. ‘Pandora.’
‘Paul!’ Evie cautioned. ‘Behave. Just put the basket on the floor, Jemma. Dash can sort himself.’
Jemma lifted the basket cautiously, slightly unnerved as the weight shifted from one side to the other.
As she set it on the floor, a chocolate snout lifted the unlatched lid.
A furry, elongated face followed, two golden eyes fringed by long, floppy ears, and two paws appeared on the edge of the basket.
‘Dachshund? Should I help him get out?’
The dog looked up at Jemma like he felt that would, indeed, be a good idea.
Everyone else ignored her, involved in what seemed to be more different conversations than there were people.
She didn’t mind, though; it felt like home, where everyone demanded their right to be heard, even if it meant they were talking to themselves.
‘It is freezing out there,’ Dad remarked, chafing his hands together. He lifted the box of vegetables, placing it on the crowded kitchen counter as though he was familiar with the clutter and noise and life in the farmhouse.
‘Red nose, red toes, ’tis the season to be sneezin’,’ Evie said, finally handing the dark-haired baby over to Sam.
‘Take this seat, Sam,’ Dad offered. ‘Jemma, you okay there?’
‘Sure.’ The lively disorder gave the place a cosy, welcoming feel, and she slid onto the chair, leaning her elbows on the table.
‘You know the advantage of reaching my age?’ Paul asked, although it wasn’t obvious who he was addressing. He rolled to his knees, slowly getting up by leaning one shoulder against the wall for support. Jemma edged forward as though she’d help him, but no one else seemed bothered.
‘What’s that, Paul?’ Dad asked.
Paul grinned mischievously, as though he’d been waiting for the in. ‘When it’s cold out you can just pee your pants a little to stay warm and everyone thinks it’s an accident.’
‘Pops!’ Keeley shrieked.
‘What? Don’t worry, Keels, you’re young enough that you can get away with it, too.’
The girl, who Jemma figured was about six or seven, collapsed onto the hessian dog bed in a fit of snorting giggles, and the puppies tumbled over her, fighting and yipping.
‘Fair enough.’ Dad didn’t seem disconcerted and no one else even broke their conversation to pay Paul any mind.
The dachshund seemed to have adopted Jemma after she’d rescued him from the picnic basket, winding his ridiculously long body in between her ankles while looking up at her with soulful eyes. She reached down to caress his long, silky ears. ‘You’re a cute little guy, aren’t you?’
‘Why thank you,’ Paul said, pushing one of the nappy bags onto the floor and flopping noisily onto the seat. ‘Though not so much of the little, if you don’t mind.’
‘Paul!’
‘Pops!’
Lucie burst into a peal of laughter and a grin tweaked Jemma’s lips as Evie and Sam chorused the protest.
‘I can’t believe he still shocks you.’ Lucie said.
‘Oh, it’s not shock,’ Evie said. ‘It’s despair. What am I going to do with this man?’
‘If we didn’t have company, you know I’d have suggestions for you,’ Paul said, waggling untidy eyebrows.
‘You wish your body could match your mouth. Actually, I wish it could.’ Evie clapped her hands together. ‘Right, let’s get that kettle on. Who’s having what?’
‘I’d kill for a coffee,’ Lucie said with a sigh. ‘But nettle for me. Breastfeeding,’ she added, catching Jemma’s eye.
Jemma gave a tight smile; that was too much information. Only for her, apparently, as everyone else chimed in with congratulations on how little Gus was faring.
‘What does everyone else want to drink?’ Evie called out again, her first attempt lost in the noise. Voices echoed from around the table as orders were yelled and relayed an impossible number of times. Jack stood to help his grandmother.
‘Put the oven on, Jack,’ Sam yelled. ‘I popped a heap of pastries in Ma’s fridge. And Pierce brought over a tiramisu.’
‘Lucie made a batch of oat muffins this morning,’ Jack volunteered. ‘And an avocado mousse.’
Paul leaned closer to Jemma. ‘Don’t worry, you can eat the real food.’
‘Oh, I’m easy.’
‘Woman after my own heart,’ he murmured with a wink.
Jemma’s cheeks heated, Paul guffawed, and an unprecedented giggle bubbled in her chest.
‘Paul, you want to behave yourself over there,’ Evie called. ‘Remember, Jemma’s a lawyer. She’ll have you in jail for harassment if you’re not careful.’
Paul held out both gnarled hands, insides of his wrists pressed together, partially stilling the slight tremor. ‘Use the fluffy handcuffs, if you don’t mind. I’ve got thin skin nowadays.’
Jemma’s laughter erupted in a deep belly chuckle that was so unlike her, Dad momentarily broke off his animated conversation with Evie to glance her way. She grinned at him, feeling foolish, yet somehow … lighter.
Two hours later, Jemma wasn’t certain how much useful information she’d managed to impart, but she did know she’d eaten too much, drunk what was apparently a bottomless mug of tea and laughed so often that the hollows below her ribs actually ached.
‘You take care, then, love,’ Evie said as she accompanied them to the back door. ‘Your dad was telling me you work with some nasty characters.’
Jemma shot a dark look at Dad, not so much because of what he’d said, but because he’d unknowingly jolted her back to the reality of the dual issues that awaited her back in the city.
The brief escape from the constant obsessing over the scant clues contained in the threatening notes had been a relief.
But now, the weight of it all crept back in—along with a nagging sense of unease as she tried to predict Rohan’s next career move.
Paul leaned in to embrace her as though he’d known her all her life, and Jemma gasped.
Paul chuckled. ‘Got you breathless, have I?’
She murmured agreement, but her mind was whirling as the pieces suddenly fell into place.
She knew exactly who the threats were from.
Rohan had orchestrated his moves seamlessly, restricting her access to information before her meeting with their client, then informing Wilkins of her refusal to clear the incriminating evidence from his house, with the clear intention of inciting the client to make a complaint about her.
But he had dangerously misjudged Wilkins.
Intimidation—and worse—was the backbone of their client’s reputation.
His history demonstrated that he believed himself above the law, and he wasn’t the type to waste time on a formal complaint.
He wouldn’t think twice about permanently removing anyone who crossed him.