The Gray Drake

by Charles Cutter

  “About a day and a….”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  Burr turned to Skinner. “I withdraw the question, Your Honor.” Then to Mrs. Grettenberger, “If I were you, I’d be careful out there. I understand that Mr. Cullen is very tough about drinking and driving.”

  Cullen ignored Burr and called Joe Gleason. The oil man stepped up to the witness stand. He sat and swept his unfashionably long brown hair back over his ears. His gold Rolex flashed, but his tortoise-shell glasses were nowhere in sight.

  He’s preening for us. I suppose I do that. Every now and then.

  “Mr. Gleason,” Cullen said, “you were a guest at The Gray Drake on the night of June 21st, the night Mr. Shepherd was murdered.”

  Burr stood to object.

  “Killed,” Cullen said.

  “I object,” Burr said.

  “Died,” Cullen said.

  Burr sat down.

  Cullen started over. “Mr. Gleason, were you a guest at The Gray Drake on June 21st, the night Mr. Shepherd died?”

  “I was.”

  “And you were at the auction earlier in the evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gleason,” Cullen said. “Would you please tell us what you did after the auction?”

  “I listened to the string quartet, had a nightcap, and then I went to bed.”

  “What happened after you went to bed?”

  “I didn’t make it through the night.” Gleason looked a little sheepish.

  This is just like the preliminary exam. Cullen rehearses all of his witnesses. I don’t like him. I don’t like his smile, but he is a good lawyer.

  “So I had to get up,” he said. “As usual.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “About three. It could have been four.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I looked at my watch.” Gleason flashed his watch.

  “You don’t take it off when you go to bed?”

  “No.”

  “And what happened when you got up?”

  “The bathrooms are down the hall at The Gray Drake, so after that I walked to the end of the hall and looked out the window.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “I saw Mrs. Shepherd come up the path from the parking lot off to the north.”

  “Really? That’s late, isn’t it?”

  “I thought so.”

  “And did you notice anything else?”

  “She was hurrying.”

  Cullen turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, the auction ended at about ten p.m. Mrs. Shepherd had her altercation with Virginia Walker at the Two-Track at about eleven. Mrs. Grettenberger said that she saw Mrs. Walker around one or two a.m. And now Mr. Gleason says he saw Mrs. Shepherd come back to The Gray Drake between three and four in the morning.”

  Cullen took a step toward the jury. “So, if all Mrs. Shepherd did was help her husband launch his boat and drop off a car, then she would have been back at the lodge by midnight. One at the latest.” Another step. “The reason she got back so late was that she ambushed her husband on the river and killed him.”

  Before Burr could object, Cullen walked back to his table.

  “No further questions,” he said.

  Burr walked up to Gleason. He put his hands in his pockets. “Mr. Gleason, do you wear glasses?”

  Gleason looked down at his shoes.

  “Mr. Gleason, this would seem to be a fairly simple question. Either you do or you don’t.”

  “I wear reading glasses.”

  “Mr. Gleason, are you nearsighted?”

  “Nearsighted?”

  “Mr. Gleason, before you perjure yourself, you testified at the preliminary exam that you wore glasses because you’re nearsighted. Do you remember that?”

  “Not really.”

  “Mr. Gleason, may I see your glasses?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Cullen said. “Mr. Gleason is not on trial.”

  “Your Honor, Mr. Gleason’s vision is on trial.”

  “Is this necessary, Mr. Lafayette?” Skinner said.

  “Your Honor, my client has been charged with murder. All Mr. Gleason has to do is reach in his pocket.”

  Skinner bent his bent neck toward Gleason.

  “Mr. Gleason, I think it would be much easier if you simply got your glasses out of your pocket,” Skinner said.

  Gleason frowned, but he reached in the breast pocket of his jacket and took out his glasses.

  “Please put them on,” Burr said.

  Gleason looked at Skinner, who nodded at him.

  Gleason put the glasses on.

  Burr leaned in. “Mr. Gleason, your reading glasses seem to be bifocals. Is that right?”

  “I don’t hardly need them.”

  “But you do have a prescription for nearsightedness.”

  “Not much of one.”

  “Mr. Gleason, did you have your glasses on the night you claimed to have seen Mrs. Shepherd through the window?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Gleason, at the preliminary exam, you testified you didn’t have them on. Are you lying now?”

  “No.”

  “Were you lying then?”

  “I don’t remember,” Gleason said.

  Burr had to hurry. “Mr. Gleason, you sell oil and gas interests. Is that right? And you’re a convicted felon. Is that right?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Burr said. “Mr. Gleason, let me show you something.”

  “Objection, Your Honor. This is not relevant,” Cullen said.

  “Your Honor, the witness’s tendency to lie is most certainly relevant.”

  “I’ll allow it,” Skinner said.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Burr said. “Mr. Gleason, if I’m not mistaken, you pleaded guilty to securities fraud. Isn’t that right?”

  “I didn’t do it, but I pleaded guilty to avoid a trial,” Gleason said.

  “I have no further questions, Your Honor.” Burr sat back down.

  Eve leaned over the railing. “I don’t think Joe Gleason will be sending you a Christmas card.”

  Cullen stood up, “Your Honor, the State calls Noah Osterman.”

  Burr groaned. “Another member of the liar’s club.”

  The Prussian raised his hand to be sworn in. Fifty years ago, Osterman would have been a Nazi.

  “Mr. Osterman, were you staying at The Gray Drake on the night of June 21st?”

  “Yes.” Osterman rubbed his salt-and-pepper Van Dyke.

  “And you were at the auction?”

  “Yes.” He nodded.

  “And did you see Mrs. Shepherd that night? Late that night?”

  Osterman cleared his throat. “I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep. Finally, I decided to go downstairs for a glass of milk. When I got there, I saw Mrs. Shepherd in the kitchen.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About four, I’d say.”

  “And what was she doing?”

  “She was at the sink.”

  “What was she doing?”

  “I think she was trying to get some blood out of her jacket.”

  “Did she see you?”

  Osterman leaned forward. “No.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I watched her for a while. Then I went back to my room.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Osterman.” Once again, Cullen turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, we now have Mrs. Shepherd placed in the kitchen of The Gray Drake. Mr. Gleason saw her come up the driveway. Mr. Osterman saw her scrubbing blood, her husband’s blood, off her jacket. Need I say more?�
�� Cullen sat down.

  Burr couldn’t believe what he just heard. He could object, but he had other plans for the Prussian. Burr walked up to the witness. “Mr. Osterman, are you sure it was blood?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re aware that Mrs. Shepherd is the chef at The Gray Drake?”

  “Yes.”

  “And chefs often spill when they cook?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mr. Osterman, could Mrs. Shepherd have been trying to get red wine off her clothes, or perhaps, beets? Or how about ketchup?” It was Osterman’s turn to scowl at Burr. “Mr. Osterman, what you saw on Mrs. Shepherd’s jacket was red?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be certain it was blood?”

  “It was blood.”

  “I see . . . And you have proof?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Osterman, you represent Mr. Gleason. Is that right?”

  Osterman didn’t say a word.

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Cullen said.

  “I read the pleadings of Mr. Gleason’s trial, Mr. Osterman. You represent a liar, is that right? What does that make you?” Burr turned on his heel and started back to his table, but stopped in front of Cullen. “I suppose Hawken is next. Is he going to testify that he saw Lizzie hit Quinn with the canoe paddle?”

  Skinner adjourned them for lunch. Burr followed Lizzie out of the courtroom and into the hall. He took her by the arm and led her into an empty conference room. “Why didn’t you tell me you went down to the river? Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d known, maybe I could have done something about it.”

  She pulled her arm away from Burr. Then she brushed her hair out of her eyes. Burr thought she looked scared. “I didn’t think anyone saw me.”

  “You didn’t think anyone saw you? And that’s why you didn’t tell me?”

  “I didn’t kill Quinn. I swear I didn’t.”

  “But you went down to the river and ambushed him.”

  “I didn’t ambush him.” She looked away from Burr.

  “But you hit him with the canoe paddle.”

  “No. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.

  Burr thought Lizzie was begging him to believe her.

  “But you hit him.”

  “I slapped him. That’s all I did.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “We didn’t talk.”

  “Come on, Lizzie. You went all the way down to the river, and you didn’t talk?”

  “He said we’d talk later. He got back in the boat and that was the last time I ever saw him.” Now she was pleading.

  “If the jury believes Grettenberger, you are going to be convicted of murder.” Burr turned on his heel and walked out, got in his Jeep and drove off by himself. “Why do they always lie?” He slammed his fist on the dashboard. “Why?”

  Burr drove for an hour and got back to the courtroom just before Skinner entered.

  The bailiff called them to order.

  “Mr. Cullen, do you have more witnesses?” Skinner said.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “You may proceed with your closing argument.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Cullen paced back and forth in front of the jury. He stopped at the corner of the jury box closest to the witness stand where he could see the jury and Lizzie. “Ladies and gentlemen, the State has broken its case into three pieces, all of which connect, and each of which requires you to convict Elizabeth Shepherd of first-degree murder in the death of her husband.

  “First, we showed you the murder weapon, the canoe paddle, that Mrs. Shepherd used to kill her husband. The forensic examiner from the state police corroborated that the canoe paddle dealt the fatal blow to Mr. Shepherd. Second, we showed why Mrs. Shepherd killed her husband. She was jealous. And finally, three different witnesses put her at the scene of the crime or put her whereabouts in a place where she could only have been if she had killed her husband.”

  Cullen walked to the other end of the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen, there are three elements to the crime of first-degree murder. First, the means. In this case, the canoe paddle. Second, the motive. In this case, jealousy. And third, the opportunity. Mrs. Shepherd was at the river with her husband. These three elements, the means, the motive and the opportunity require you to convict Mrs. Shepherd of first-degree murder.” Cullen stopped pacing, looked at the jury one by one, then, “It is a terrible thing to have to judge someone, but that is your duty. Your duty is to convict.” With that, Cullen walked back to his table. “Your Honor, the prosecution rests.”

  Skinner made a big show of looking at his watch. It was only three o’clock, but he adjourned them for the day.

  * * *

  Burr met Jacob outside the courthouse.

  Despite his client, who he thought might well have murdered her husband, Burr wasn’t about to give up. She has never told me the whole truth. Is she lying, or is she so terrified she only answered in bits and pieces? Or was she lying? The evidence pointed to her, but Burr thought there was more. On top of that, he hated losing, and he had no intention of losing to Cullen, even if Lizzie was guilty.

  Jacob had on a belted camel overcoat that looked like it was very warm, but he had his hands in his pockets, and he was shivering.

  “Where is Virginia Walker?”

  “I have no idea. I waited outside her house all day, but she was nowhere to be found.”

  “Why aren’t you still there?”

  “I am not a private detective.” He stomped his feet. “And I got cold.”

  Apparently. “Jacob, go back to Mount Pleasant and find her.”

  Jacob took his hands out of his pockets and wrapped his arms around his chest. “You go.”

  “Jacob, please go back to Mt. Pleasant and find Virginia Walker.”

  Jacob sulked, then turned to go.

  “Just one more thing,” Burr said. “If I wanted to find out who bought and sold real estate in Crawford County, what would I do?”

  “Go to the Register of Deeds office and check the grantor-grantee file.”

  “How about the plat book?”

  “The plat book is for amateurs.”

  “There has always been something going on with these oil men. I just don’t know what.”

  Burr gave Jacob a blanket from his car and sent him on his way. He got into his Jeep and drove to the Register of Deeds office, just up the road from the courthouse. By the time he got to the county offices, it was 4:30. A very pretty young woman with sparkling green eyes, who looked more suited for the runway than a rundown county office, wasn’t any too happy to see him.

  He gave her his most helpless look. “Could you please show me the grantor-grantee file?”

  “Which one?”

  “Is there more than one?”

  “There’s a room full of them.”

  This made Burr nervous. He hated research of all shapes and sizes. “I’m looking for anything concerning the name Shepherd.”

  “You and everyone else.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Ms. . . .”

  “Fletcher,” she said. “Come this way.” She led him to a room full of bookshelves overflowing with brown-leather books. Big books. Each one the size of the Rand-McNally atlas. Each one looked like the other.

  Burr shuddered. “How about a plat book?”

  “The plat book is for amateurs.” She started back to the front desk. Burr followed her. Back at the counter, the comely clerk reached down and came up with an 8-by-11 spiral-bound book with a paper cover. She set it down in front of him. “The Crawford County plat book,” she said. “That’ll be twenty-five dollars. If you need anything else, I’ll be here tomorrow at
nine.”

  Burr paid her. “Thank you, Ms. Fletcher. If you were me, where would you start?”

  “I would start at page one.” She put a CLOSED sign on the counter and left.

  Burr climbed back in the Jeep with his brand-new Crawford County plat book. He headed west on M-72. A dozen miles later, he pulled into Dingman’s Tavern, a one-story brown building that had started out as a log cabin but had lost its charm with the construction of at least three additions that matched the color of the original log cabin, but not its style.

  After his first beer, he felt brave enough to open the plat book. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what a plat book was, or that he had never seen one, it was just that he hated research. He was always afraid he was going to miss something, which he almost always did. “Where is Jacob when I need him?” he said out loud. Burr knew full well where Jacob was, but he sorely wished it was Jacob looking at this damned plat book.

  His second beer arrived. Emboldened, he flipped through the pages. Page after page. Township after township. Each page was a map that showed the parcels and the owners. Most of Crawford County belonged to either the federal or state government, neither of which paid taxes. “No wonder the county doesn’t have any money.” By the time he made it to page ten, he had lost interest and rifled through the rest of it. He finished his second beer and ordered a third, determined to make it last. “Damn it all,” he said, “I suppose I might as well start at page one. Just like she said.” He turned back to the beginning of the book. And there it was. An index. He hated indexes, but here was an index by owner. He ran his finger down the columns until he came to S listings. Santini, Saxman, Seeley, Selfridge. “Shepherd,” he said. “Shepherd, Thompson.” Then Shepherd, Quinn. Quinn and Lizzie’s house. Burr turned the pages. “That’s it?”

  He slammed the book shut. What a colossal waste of time. He downed the rest of the beer, thought long and hard about one more, but called for the check.

  Burr flipped through the pages one more time. Nothing. He turned back to the index. What’s this? Just after Shepherd, Quinn. The Alexander Thompson Shepherd Trust. There were five-page references. “Good God, what’s this?” He rifled through the book until he found the first one. A section northeast of Grayling. Three hundred acres just north of the lodge. Six more parcels, all big acreage. Burr left a twenty on the table and ran out to the Jeep.