“Yes.”
“And you make your crust from scratch.”
“Oh, yes. With Crisco.” Her eyes brightened.
“Very good,” Brooks said, though he didn’t care a whit about the pie crust. “And you have a canister of flour in the kitchen?”
“On the counter.”
“What did you do?”
“I scooped out the flour. Almost two cups. It was an apple pie, first of the season. From Miss Helen’s trees. A double crust.”
“And then?”
“On the second scoop, I see something in the flour. I thought it might be bugs.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No.”
“What was it?”
“It was Miss Helen’s diamond.” She looked at Brooks like he’d just asked a stupid question.
“So, you found Mrs. Lockwood’s diamond ring…” Brooks paused while he walked to the evidence table. He held up the bag with the ring in it and shook it at Tommy. “This very ring. In the canister of flour in Mrs. Lockwood’s kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Rodriguez, did Mrs. Lockwood always wear her ring?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did you ever see her not wearing her wedding ring?”
“No.”
“Thank you.” Brooks walked to the jury, the ring in his hand. He held it between his thumb and forefinger right in front of them. “This ring…” Brooks feigned speechlessness. “This ring. It’s… it’s as big as a cocktail olive.”
At least we agree on something.
“Ladies and gentlemen, not only did the defendant murder his wife, he took off her ring after he murdered her.” Brooks paused. “Because he was so greedy, he wanted to keep it for himself. He is the only person who has access to the kitchen except for Ms. Rodriguez, and she’s the one who found the ring. There can be no other explanation.” Brooks pointed at Tommy. “It was despicable. I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
Burr walked up to Consuela ever so slowly. He leaned on the railing of the witness stand and looked at her. “You bake a pie every Saturday?” he said, calmly, quietly and full of peace.
“For twenty-three years.”
“That’s a lot of pies.”
“It sure is.”
“And a lot of flour.”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Rodriguez, how big is the container that holds the flour?”
“Big.”
“How big?”
“Very big.”
Burr bit his lip. He had to do a better job with his vague baker. “Ms. Rodriguez, how much flour do you think the container holds?”
“I don’t know. A lot.”
“Does it hold a five-pound bag of flour?”
“Oh yes.”
“Maybe more?”
“Maybe.”
“So, it holds a lot of flour.” Burr stood back. “How often do you refill it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Every couple of months or so.”
“I see. And how much flour was left in the bin when you found the ring?”
“I don’t know. Not too much.” She was starting to get nervous again.
“Ms. Rodriguez, isn’t it possible that Mrs. Lockwood, for whatever reason, put the ring in the bottom of the flour bin before she went to South Manitou. And for the past year, you refilled the bin when needed and then, this last time, you just happened to find it when you got down to the bottom?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You don’t know how the ring got in the bin, and you don’t know who put it in there. Do you.” The biggest nonquestion Burr had asked so far.
“No, I guess not.” The pastry chef took her hands off the rails and put them in her lap. Her knuckles weren’t white anymore, but her hands were shaking.
It was Burr’s turn to walk to the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Rodriguez may well have found Mrs. Lockwood’s ring in the flour bin. But what does it mean?” He paused. “Nothing. It means that she found the ring. That’s all. There is no connection between finding this ring and Mrs. Lockwood’s murder.” Burr looked over his shoulder at Judge Fisher. “I have no further questions.”
It went better than I thought it would, but now we’re really in the soup.
Brooks stood. “Your Honor, in light of this incriminating new evidence, the prosecution asks that Mr. Lockwood’s bail be revoked immediately and he be held in the Grand Traverse County jail.”
Burr launched himself out of his seat. “Your Honor, finding this ring proves nothing. It has not been connected to Mr. Lockwood. It’s nothing more than a prize in a box of Crackerjack.”
“A very expensive prize, Mr. Lafayette,” Judge Fisher said.
“Your Honor,” Brooks said, “the defendant is the only one who had access to the kitchen. He’s the only one who could have put it there.”
“Unless Mrs. Lockwood put it there,” Burr said.
“She never took her ring off,” Brooks said.
Judge Fisher slammed down her gavel so hard it tipped over the bud vase. The rose fell on her desk. Water spilled everywhere. She turned away from the jury. “God damn it,” she said. Turning back, “I take judicial note of the gravity of this new evidence, but Mr. Lockwood’s bail is continued. Bailiff, clean this up.”
Judge Fisher slammed her gavel down again, not so hard this time. “We are adjourned for the day.” She stormed out.
By the time Burr had collected his papers, Tommy was already gone. He quite needed to talk to his most probably guilty and definitely not very likable client. When Burr left the courtroom, he heard a woman shouting farther down the hall. He followed his ears to the Court-of-the-Star chamber cloakroom.
Karen had Tommy backed up against one of the rolling coatracks, a la Burr. Lauren stood off to the side. Tommy’s face was flushed.
“I told you. I didn’t put her ring there.”
Karen screeched at him, “I know what you told me. I don’t believe you anymore.” She had lost all the color in her face.
“Karen. Screaming isn’t helping anything.” Lauren put her hand on Karen’s arm but she shook it off.
“I wanted to believe you. I really did,” Karen said.
“I didn’t kill her,” Tommy said.
“You did. I know you did.” She took a step toward Tommy.
That coatrack is going to tip over again.
Karen kept going. “You put her ring in the flour. Helen never took it off. I never once saw her without it.”
Lauren took Karen by the arm again and pulled her away. “We need to go.”
“No, we don’t.” She jerked her arm free from Lauren and pushed Tommy into the coatrack. He staggered. The coatrack crashed to the floor again, but Burr grabbed Tommy before he could fall.
As bad as this was, Burr felt a certain peace now that the coatrack had tipped again.
Karen ran out.
“Tommy, I’m so sorry,” Lauren said. “She’s really upset now, but she’ll calm down.”
I wondered how long it would take for them to turn on each other.
* * *
Burr sat in the bar on the top floor of the Park Place, alone at his table except for his second martini. The bartender had made it just the way he liked it. Burr looked out the window, the lights of Traverse City below, Grand Traverse Bay off to the west, the lights of the harbor blinking at him, red, green and white. He stirred his drink with his finger, took out one of the olives and chewed it slowly.
He’d stayed in the coatroom with Tommy after Karen and Lauren had left. He’d tried to calm him down, but it really hadn’t worked. Tommy said he felt more alone every day. It was bad enough that Consuela had turned on him, but Karen was much worse. Burr said that Consuela hadn’t turned on him. She was giving evidence, which she was
required to do. And neither of them could talk to her about it. That would be witness tampering.
Karen, though, was another story. She had clearly gone off the deep end, and there was no telling what might happen next. “There’s something going on here,” Burr said to his martini.
The bar was almost empty, but those who were there all looked at him. Burr gave them a wave and turned back to the martini.
They all think I’m crazy.
He ate another olive.
I probably am crazy.
If only Zeke were here. It always helped Burr to talk things out, out loud. He could talk to Zeke, who didn’t really listen, and no one would think twice about it. But if he did it without Zeke, everyone thought he was crazy.
Burr picked up his glass, swirled the ice and ate the third olive. He was sure there was something going on, something that Tommy, Karen, Lauren, or one of the others knew about.
Was it the missing dinghy? Was it one of the suspects he was going to question tomorrow? Was it something on the boat? The logbook?
“Damn it all,” he said out loud.
All eyes back on Burr.
I don’t care what you think.
He ate the last olive and ordered a third martini and two shepherd’s pies to go.
* * *
Burr tapped his brand-new pencil, the only one he had left. After yesterday’s performance, Eve had taken custody of the pencils. He’d have to make do with just this one.
Burr, as always, sat next to Tommy, who looked worn out. He had bags under his eyes and lines around his mouth. The ever-natty Jacob positively glowed through his olive skin. His crisp white shirt looked like it could stand up by itself. But then Jacob hadn’t had to do much. Yet.
As for Burr, three martinis always made him a bit foggy the next morning, but like a true warrior, he would rise above it.
As for Judge Mary Fisher, she had yet another fresh-cut flower in the bud vase, yesterday’s drama forgotten. But not a rose. It was a New England aster, the last wildflower of the year. A brilliant purple with a yellow center. “Mr. Lafayette, call your first witness.”
“The defense calls Joseph Maguire.”
Burr watched the ever-so-smooth vintner walk down the aisle, dressed in a navy-blue blazer over charcoal slacks, white shirt and club tie. He looked prosperous, though he wasn’t.
The bailiff swore in Maguire.
“Mr. Maguire, you are the owner of the Port Oneida Vineyards. Is that right?”
“Yes.” Maguire pulled down his cuffs. His gold cufflinks almost blinded Burr.
“And your vineyard is located on Port Oneida Road, close to the late Helen Lockwood’s orchards. Is that right?”
“We’re neighbors.”
“And Mr. Maguire, you agreed to sell your winery to the Park Service. Isn’t that right?”
Maguire’s smile disappeared.
“Isn’t that right?” Burr pulled down his own cuffs, which didn’t dazzle.
“There was sort of an agreement, but it never went through.”
“Really?” Burr arched his eyebrows.
“We couldn’t work out the details.”
Burr walked back to the defense table. Jacob handed him a file. Back in front of the vintner, “Mr. Maguire, I have here a purchase and sale agreement with your winery and the Park Service. It is signed by you and Mr. Sleeper.” Burr turned to the gallery, found Sleeper and nodded to him. Sleeper didn’t acknowledge him. Back to Maguire, “As I read the agreement, the only reason you didn’t sell is because the purchase by the Park Service was contingent on the purchase of the late Mrs. Lockwood’s orchard. Isn’t that right?”
Maguire sat there.
“Mr. Maguire?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Please answer the question.”
Brooks stood. “Objection, Your Honor. Asked and answered. Mr. Maguire says he doesn’t remember.”
“Your Honor, the defense would like to introduce the purchase and sale agreement by and between Mr. Maguire and the Park Service as Defense Exhibit One.”
“I object, Your Honor,” Brooks said. “Irrelevant.”
“Your Honor, I am about to show its relevance,” Burr said.
“Bailiff, admit the evidence,” Judge Fisher said.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Burr handed Maguire the agreement. “Please read this sentence.”
Maguire fumbled with it, then dropped it. Burr picked it up. He smiled at Maguire. “I’ll read it for you. ‘The purchase of the subject property shall be conditioned on the prior purchase by the Park Service of that certain real estate known as Port Oneida Orchards.’”
“I didn’t sell my winery.”
“No, but you wanted to. And here’s why.” Burr retrieved another folder from Jacob. “Mr. Maguire, this is the notice of foreclosure on your winery, filed at the Register of Deeds office by Leelanau State Bank. It seems your mortgage is in default.”
“How did you get that?” Maguire tried to grab it, but Burr pulled it out of the vintner’s reach.
Jacob, you’re a fine fellow.
Burr, over Brooks’ objection and with Judge Fisher’s approval, introduced the notice of foreclosure.
“Mr. Maguire,” Burr said, “it looks to me like there isn’t as much money in grapes as you had hoped. So, you tried to sell your grapevines to Dale Sleeper. But you couldn’t. So, you took matters in your own hands. After you killed Mrs. Lockwood, her farm would be sold and so would yours. You’d be a very rich man.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
Brooks erupted. “Your Honor, this is sheer speculation. Counsel is accusing Mr. Maguire when there is absolutely no evidence.”
Burr knew Brooks was right, but he wanted to re-muddy the waters, which he most certainly had done. He had to act fast. “Mr. Maguire, where were you on the night of June 9th last year?”
“I…I…don’t remember.”
“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
Brooks huffed his way up to Maguire. He paced back and forth, exhaled. “Mr. Maguire, have you ever been convicted of a crime?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been charged with a crime?”
“No.”
Brooks grinned at Maguire. “Have you ever had a parking ticket?”
Maguire turned red. “Yes.”
“Mr. Maguire, did you kill Mrs. Lockwood?”
“No.”
Brooks walked over to the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is one thing to have money problems. We’ve probably all had them at one time or another. It’s quite another to kill someone over them.” Brooks pointed at Burr. “This man has just made a reckless and unsubstantiated accusation. I ask you to take it for what it’s worth and ignore it.” Brooks sat.
For his part, Burr didn’t care what Brooks said. He didn’t care if Maguire killed Helen. In fact, Burr was quite sure Maguire hadn’t. It had been almost too much to hope for that Maguire wouldn’t remember where he was the night Helen was killed. So far, this was going swimmingly.
I’m getting closer to reasonable doubt.
Burr wasn’t done muddying the waters. He called Sven Larson, who ran the fishing boat out of Leland, where Burr had bought all things whitefish. Sven and family also owned property on Port Oneida Trail. It was an old farmstead just down the road from the orchards, also subject to a contingent purchase agreement with the industrious Dale Sleeper and just about ready for a tax foreclosure sale. It seemed as though the Larsons were three years behind on their property taxes.
Larson blustered and whined, hemmed and hawed, but finally admitted that what Burr alleged was true.
But the meat in this sandwich was different.
“Mr. Larson, you’ve admitted that you had a contingent agreement to sell the family farmstead to the Park Servi
ce. You also admitted that your farm is due to be sold at a tax foreclosure sale. Is that right?”
“Yes.” The fisherman gripped the railing of the witness stand, just like Consuela had, but Larson gripped it so hard, Burr thought he might crush it.
“Mr. Larson, here’s what I don’t understand. You fish off Sleeping Bear almost every day. You were seen near Mrs. Lockwood’s boat the day after she was killed and the day after that as well. In fact, Lester Dillworth said he saw you coming toward Mrs. Lockwood’s boat at full speed, when he was already tied up alongside her boat.” Burr paused. “You chased him away and then towed the boat in yourself. Why did you do that?”
Larson gripped the railing even tighter, if that was possible. He didn’t say anything.
This is perfect.
“Mr. Larson, isn’t it possible that you killed Mrs. Lockwood, buried her and set her boat across the lake? Then, when you saw it drifting off the dunes, you panicked. You chased Mr. Dillworth away because you wanted to make sure he couldn’t find anything that would incriminate you.”
“No. No. That wasn’t it at all. I thought Dillworth was cutting my nets. I wanted to talk to him about it, but he left before I got there.”
“Mr. Larson, isn’t it true that you’ve been convicted of assault and battery.”
Larson tightened his grip on the railing.
“You’re no stranger to violence.” Burr paused. “Are you?”
Brooks jumped up. “I object. This is pure speculation.” Brooks ranted and raved again. Judge Fisher scolded Burr again, and he didn’t care if Larson had killed Helen or not.
There was one more witness. This one, Andrew Pretty, who wasn’t. A florid man who was at least three sizes too big for his rumpled suit that looked like it had been cut from an upholstered chair. As it turned out, Mr. Pretty’s family owned a cottage at the end of Port Oneida Trail. It had been in the family for decades. On a bluff three hundred feet above Lake Michigan. Two stories, six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a fireplace at each end, porches all the way around – and just about ready to fall down the bluff and into the lake.
They couldn’t move it and they couldn’t sell it. Enter Dale Sleeper on his white, government-issue stallion with his contingent purchase agreement. Mr. Pretty had a temper. He’d lost it more than once, and everyone in the courtroom had heard him.
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