I could tell that even repeating the incident made Shirley a bit uneasy.
“I asked your husband this, and I’ll ask you as well—have you ever seen this man again since the trial?”
She shook her head vehemently but her eyes still betrayed fear. She held the door for me, the implication clear that it was time for me to leave.
Chapter 28
The Jeep had become hot and stuffy inside, so I opened all the windows and let the breeze clear the air as I drove south on Wyoming. I was only ten minutes or so from Fergus’s place and it seemed a good idea to check in with him again, although I wasn’t sure what, specifically, we needed to cover. Mainly, I hoped if I went over what I’d read in the trial transcript something might jog his memory.
An extra car sat outside the trailer, one with Colorado plates. I parked in the limited space next to it and walked up to the door, where a woman in her early fifties met me. She had long brown hair with strands of gray, a youthful face with minimal makeup, and seemed fit in her jeans and bright purple V-necked shirt.
“Are you Charlie?” she asked. “I’m Christine.” She opened the door and stepped aside while I entered, puzzled.
“Dad’s in the bath,” she said. “Would you like some coffee or a soda?”
Dad? “Yeah, sure. A Coke sounds great. Um, I have to admit surprise here. Fergus never mentioned a daughter.”
A chuff escaped her. “I’m not terribly surprised about that. It’s all about Rory and always has been.”
Ooh. “I noticed you’re from Colorado?” She’d stepped into the kitchen and I took a seat at the small bar which divided it from the living room.
“Yep.” She bustled about the tiny space, opening cupboard doors until she located a glass. “I went to CSU right out of high school, met the right guy, married young. We’ve got two girls who—I can’t believe it—are already in college. I never had any desire to come back to New Mexico. Of course, Mom was alive back then and they were still farming the place at Hatch. But I knew the minute Rory decided what he wanted to do with his life that the parents would tag along. Youngest child, only boy, spoiled completely rotten—it was in the cards by the time he was five or six.”
Christine had poured a mug for herself from the old electric percolator on the countertop. She set my Coke and an ice-filled glass in front of me.
“I guess that explains a lot about the current effort to get Rory exonerated and back to Albuquerque before …” I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the bathroom.
“We can talk. He takes forever with his morning routine, and he’s hard of hearing anyway so say anything you want.”
Okay then. “So, what’s your take on this whole mess your brother found himself in?”
She leaned forward with her forearms on the counter. “I have no opinion on whether Rory actually did what they said he did. It wouldn’t surprise me. He really found his niche with the law and he loved winning at all costs. But, he also had his eye on bigger things—I know, because Dad sent me every damn news clipping about Rory’s successes, especially his declaration to run for state Senate.”
She pushed a few loose sugar granules into a little pile with her thumb. “I find it hard to believe he would risk that career and everything it would lead to just to get some punk drug dealer acquitted. Yes, a win in that case would have looked good—maybe—people don’t always want to see druggies let off. You see what I mean—what would be the point?”
I did get it. And she was right. What would be the point?
“So, who would have threatened the jurors? And, even more, who wanted to see Rory convicted and sent to prison?” I was mostly musing but she answered.
“Believe it or not, considering I don’t give two shakes about my brother, I’ve actually thought about it quite a bit over the years. My closest guess is the drug guy and his people were the ones behind the jury tampering—it only makes sense. And I think it’s pretty much a no-brainer that the man who wanted Rory in prison was his rival, that Quinto guy.” She shrugged. “Anyway, that’s my take on it.”
“Didn’t Rory and Herman Quinto work in the local D.A.’s office at one time?” I asked. “Quinto on the prosecution side and Rory as a public defender.”
“For a while. I don’t remember exactly when Rory branched out and went in partnership with that other friend from law school.”
“I wonder if the animosity from Quinto goes back that far, to their time in the same department but on opposite sides of the courtroom.”
Another shrug.
I heard a small sound behind me. Christine looked up and her expression closed. I turned to see Fergus standing in the bedroom doorway, and I wondered how much he’d heard. He came into the living room, a quirky, almost humorous little smile on his face.
“So, Charlie, you took out that crooked judge for me, did you?”
“Hi Fergus.” A glance back toward Christine told me Fergus had already told her about the judge’s death. “I can see why you’d be happy to see some kind of vengeance on Judge Blackman, but sorry to say it wasn’t me. He was dead when I got there.”
A flicker of disappointment registered on the old man’s face. Obviously, he would have loved to tell everyone that his private investigator handled the case decisively and to his liking.
“Fergus, my job is only to find out the facts. If we come up with evidence that gets Rory off the hook, we will do that. We won’t be randomly killing off his enemies.”
“I’m dying anyway—nothing’s stopping me.”
“Fergus …”
“See, the way I figure it is the judge is already gone. Good. Now there’s that sonuvabitch Quinto. And if I have the chance, I think the lame-ass lady lawyer deserves it too.”
“Dad! Don’t be talking this way,” Christine piped up.
“Hell, I may be old but I’m still pretty good with my damn shotgun. And I got nothin’ to lose. What am I gonna live anyway, another month or two? Might as well make the world a better place.”
Chapter 29
I froze in my seat until I heard Christine chuckle. “Come on, Dad, you haven’t had your breakfast yet. I’ve got some new bananas for your cereal.”
She parked Fergus at the table, still grumbling about the state of the world, and took me aside.
“While he’s eating I’ll unload the gun and hide all the ammo in the trunk of my car. He’s all talk. How’s he going to track down this guy anyway?”
“You’re sure? We could—”
“I’m sure. Anything you do to contain him will only piss him off worse. We’ll let him think he’s got the choice.”
The whole idea made me uneasy, but she was his daughter and apparently, for a while at least, was here in a caregiver capacity. I said goodbye to both and headed for my vehicle. I still had a fairly full day ahead of me.
Morning visiting hours at the rehab center were in full swing. I passed a little family group where the patient was obviously relating his rehabilitation progress in the ‘torture chamber’—apparently the man didn’t care for the exercises.
I found Elsa in the common room—what she had called the living room—chatting with two women of about her same vintage. All were dressed in soft, loose sweats and jackets. One of the ladies sported a bright pink headband around her white hair. Conversation screeched to a halt when I approached and caught Elsa’s eye.
“Charlie! Hon, I’m so glad you’re here.” She patted the empty seat beside her on the plastic covered sofa.
The other two were ogling me frankly.
“She’s the one, Norma,” said pink-headband lady with a nudge at her friend’s arm. “I told you that you slept through the news the other night. You missed the whole thing.”
I think she believed she was whispering—she kept eyeing me sideways in quick little glances—but the other woman must have been hard of hearing. She made her friend repeat the information twice.
“Are you up for a walk?” I asked Elsa.
“You bet.�
�� I had to give her points for enthusiasm, which boded well for her eventual release.
She scooted to the edge of the sofa but needed a hand when getting to her feet. We took it slowly, nearly five minutes to traverse the length of the hall. She asked about my little adventure with the police, and I gave vague answers I wouldn’t mind having repeated throughout the facility.
“I know you can’t say much here,” she said in a confidential whisper when we stood in a little alcove where a large window at the end of the hall gave a nice view of the mountains. “But don’t forget, you’re coming to my house for tea when I get home and you can tell me all about the case then.”
I gave her a hug and said the only thing I could. “We’ll do that.”
For all her enthusiasm, I could tell she was tiring quickly, so I escorted her back through the common area and down another corridor to her room. By the time she settled in bed she was talking about having a little nap before lunch. I tucked her in and went in search of her doctor.
What I got was a physical therapist who’d been working with Elsa each day since her arrival.
“She’s doing amazingly well, considering her age and the severity of the heart attack,” the forty-something woman told me.
“She certainly has her old spunk. She’s already planning a tea party for me when she gets home.” We shared a little smile over that, but I needed to turn the conversation serious again. “Is that going to be possible? Her going home?”
“I noticed you walking along with her. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you she’s still pretty fragile and she tires easily when it comes to getting around. You know her home situation—can she handle it? Are there stairs or uneven surfaces? Is the bathroom close to her bedroom … those are the types of things we need to consider.”
“It’s a medium-sized house, all on one level. She has lived alone for more than twenty years and I’d guess she actually uses less than half the space. The guest bedrooms have been closed off for a long time, unless company comes, which is rare. So, living room, kitchen, bedroom and bath are her little world. Well, aside from her garden—that’s where she really comes to life.”
“I’m afraid gardening will be out of the picture for a long while. At least with winter approaching maybe it won’t be such a temptation.”
I agreed. “So, you really think she may be able to live on her own again?”
“I didn’t exactly say that. She’ll need help. At the very least, someone to spend a few hours and take over the household chores. She shouldn’t be cleaning house or making her bed. And the problem we see with many elderly is that she’ll find cooking to be a chore so she’ll stop doing that. She’ll tell herself that she can live on peanut butter and crackers or some other little favorite snack, but she won’t be getting a balanced diet or the nutrition she needs to stay strong. Feeling weaker, she’ll tend to become sedentary, which is even worse. It will be best if she has someone to take little walks with, something non-strenuous but that would keep her active.”
I digested the information, picturing the situation and wondering how we would work all this into our fairly crazy schedule. Drake and I were used to flying off to any place a job popped up, often on a moment’s notice, and there were many times I worked at the RJP offices well into the night. I love my gram and I owe her so much but could see myself becoming resentful as I ticked away hours watching her become querulous at my demands that she eat. A family confab needed to happen soon.
Back in my Jeep, I called Ron and filled him in with what I’d just learned.
“How much of that would her Medicare cover?” he asked.
“Not much, but—” A vague memory tickled me. Years ago, Gram had mentioned an insurance policy, something her late husband had bought for the two of them. “Let me check on something, Ron. I’ll call you later.”
I pictured him staring at the dead phone in his hand, wondering why I’d bothered to call him at all, if I already knew the answer. Fifteen minutes later I’d arrived home, let Freckles out of her crate, and made my way over to Elsa’s with key in hand.
Her house had the slightly dusty smell of a place that had been empty for days. I made a mental note to have a cleaning service come on the day before Gram would get home. I refused to consider the alternative—that she might never return to this house. Meanwhile, I had just one question to answer. I stood in the kitchen, staring around, trying to remember where she kept important papers.
The answer, it turned out after twenty minutes of searching, was in a plastic box with a hinged lid, a thing about the dimensions of a file folder and six inches deep. I pulled it from the upper shelf of her closet and carried it to the bed, where I lifted the lid and riffled the contents. This was too much to read on an empty stomach, so I closed the box and carried it back home with me.
Sliced turkey and Swiss cheese from the deli, piled onto light rye bread, made a hearty sandwich, and after gobbling half of it I was set to deal with paperwork again. I pulled everything from the file box and set it on the kitchen table, looking through it while I nibbled potato chips and the rest of my sandwich.
Elsa’s filing system was neat enough. At the top of the pile was a large brown clasp envelope, which I discovered contained old photos. Elsa and Mr. Higgins so young I wouldn’t have recognized them except that I’d seen other pictures of this vintage around the house. This was an informal shot, taken on a picnic somewhere with tall pine trees surrounding them. A blanket on the ground and a wicker picnic basket. The two of them sat on the blanket, holding hands and smiling. I wondered who had been with them that day; obviously someone else took the picture unless they’d had a fairly sophisticated camera for the times. I wanted to look through the rest of the photos, but I was on a mission. I set the brown envelope aside and continued to rummage.
Farther down in the stack, I found her will—which I already knew about, as she’d given me a copy the last time she’d updated it—along with the insurance policies on her house and car. And, eventually, an envelope from the Life and Surety Insurance Company. From the postmark, it had been in here nearly forty years. I wondered if the firm was even still in business.
Inside, I found what I’d hoped for. Mr. Higgins had, indeed, purchased and prepaid for a nursing care policy, which appeared to be what’s now called long term care. I scanned enough of the pages inside to see that it most likely would cover what we needed. Before I became too hopeful, though, I’d better find out if the Life and Surety Insurance Company still existed.
I was deep into an internet search when I realized the hours had escaped me and I was due to meet Cathy at Mac’s in exactly eight minutes. Yikes.
Chapter 30
Mac’s Drive-In had changed surprisingly little over the years. Back in the ’50s people sat in their cars and all the boy/girl flirting hinged upon whether you could park within shouting distance of your intended match. At some point, a bunch of the parking spaces had been replaced by an addition to the building, and indoor dining at booths with chrome-legged tables and fake-leather tufted seating took over.
I barely remembered Cathy from school. We’d shared a class or two, and she was a couple of years ahead of me. She was in law school by the time I entered my CPA programs at the university. Luckily, in the past few days I’d been all over her Facebook and LinkedIn pages so I had a good idea of who I was looking for. The other clue was the woman waving madly at me from a corner booth at the front windows.
“I saw you as soon as you parked!” She’d slid out of the booth and we did one of those quick hugs that has begun to mean nothing, since everyone in the world will give you a hug these days.
I smiled big and made happy noises, while searching my memory banks for hints about any shared history. Truthfully, I didn’t remember her well at all. A quick perusal of my old yearbook yesterday had showed her with long, dark hair that hung lankly past her shoulders, bangs that looked as if they been trimmed with garden shears, and a needy smile. The smile was the only feature she
’d retained.
The dark hair had become a rich chestnut with golden highlights, cut in layers with the ends flipping up in a way that gave her whole face a lift. The too-heavy eyeglasses were gone—replaced by contacts, no doubt—and her makeup was light and natural.
“You look great,” I said, as my excuse for staring. “Practicing law has agreed with you.”
“Oh, actually, I hated the law. I’m a yoga instructor now. I have my own studio, and we’re thinking of opening branches around the state.”
“Wow.” My one and only attempt at yoga classes hadn’t gone well, and although I knew it would probably be good to give it another try, I hadn’t worked up the enthusiasm for it yet. I dropped my purse onto the seat and slid into the left side of the booth. “So, do you even consume things like Cokes and fries anymore?”
She laughed, but the tiny hint of neediness showed in the smile. “Oh, sure. Now and then. Well, especially the fries here!”
“I ran across Helen Bannerly recently,” I said, pretending to study the milkshake flavors on the menu. “She’s done well in her law practice, although I was surprised to learn that she’d turned away from criminal law. I suppose it was that case about ten years ago …”
Cathy picked up the hint. “Helen Bannerly. God, we were so close for a while back then, following the fast track in law school, taking intern jobs.”
A waitress interrupted to take our orders and I paused until she’d walked away.
“Helen clerked for Judge Blackman, didn’t she? What a shocker about him, huh.”
“I am not surprised. The man was so … so blatant. It only makes sense that somebody eventually came after him.”
“What do you mean—blatant?” I had a feeling I knew.
“His moves on the women, of course. I mean, some of them went for it willingly, I guess. Helen was one. But, I tell you, he’d chase anything in a skirt.”
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