“Yes,” he said. “It came from the gun used by Brandon. His fingerprints are all over the Enfield. That gun fired the fatal bullet.”
“With a broken mainspring,” I said, and he must have heard the skepticism in my tone.
Jackson Lee looked over at me. “It sounds impossible. I’ve called an expert in firearms of the Civil War period to come and take a look at the rifle. His testimony may be crucial.”
“This doesn’t make any sense at all,” I said. “The rifle hasn’t fired in over a hundred years, but now suddenly it fires a bullet that kills a man? I don’t buy it.”
After a moment Jackson Lee said, “We have a lot of things in our favor. For one, these depositions were given by people who are complete strangers, and only one man knows that Brandon and Clayton are identical twins. That sets up reasonable doubt if we go to trial. The interrogatory statements place Brandon at the scene with the right kind of weapon, but we still don’t have a motive. The three things necessary for a prosecutor to prove are motive, means, and opportunity. We just have to prove the witnesses’ statements are flawed. I’m fairly confident we can do that.”
“Fairly confident?” Brandon echoed, and Jackson Lee grinned.
“I don’t like to talk in positives. It tempts fate.”
“But you’re positive you can prove he didn’t do it, right?” Bitty leaned forward to ask him. Her eyes were big and anxious, her lower lip slightly trembling.
Jackson Lee sucked in a deep breath, then nodded and said, “I’m positive that I will do everything in my power to keep him from going to prison, sugar. I can’t promise, but I’ll do my best.”
She nodded. Then she surprised me by asking, “What about the guy who ambushed him outside JB’s? Any news on who it was or why it happened?”
Shaking his head, Jackson Lee said, “It’s most likely random vandalism, just like he said. The guy might have thought Brandon saw him, so he tried to intimidate him.”
I knew she hadn’t entirely bought Brandon’s explanation, but hadn’t wanted to mention it just in case. But random events no longer sounded rational, and I said so. Jackson Lee sighed.
“Irrational things happen a lot. Police are still looking through security camera tapes in the court square to see if they can identify the altercation, but the only one that caught it was on the courthouse, and it’s too fuzzy to make out who was involved. Frankly, most of the police are working on the Simpson shooting, so it’s not getting as much attention as it should.”
“Well,” said Bitty with a sigh, “I just want this all to be over with soon. I know you’ll figure it all out, Jackson Lee.”
“I will, sugar. I promise to do everything I can.”
At the moment, it was our only hope.
Chapter 5
“A VIDEO? THERE’S a video of the shooting?” Bitty sounded hopeful. “Then that should clear Brandon of any responsibility, right?”
Jackson Lee stepped inside from the front porch. He held a briefcase in one hand, and his smile looked rather strained. Uh oh. He hadn’t sounded especially pleased about the video. I hoped my first impression was wrong. I’m often wrong. I wanted to be wrong.
I wasn’t wrong.
We sat down at Bitty’s kitchen table while Jackson Lee took some papers out of his case. He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, the angle of the video taken by the tourist seems to show Brandon taking aim at Walter Simpson. There’s so much smoke, you can’t really tell if the bullet comes from his rifle, so that’s a point in our favor. There’s no visual evidence of flame from the rifle barrel either. I can always argue the video only shows him in the position to aim at Simpson and doesn’t prove he did it deliberately.”
After a moment of silence, Brandon said, “May I see the video? Maybe I can tell if there’s something else going on that made me aim in that direction. I don’t remember doing it, but there was so much smoke, and we were all really into it—I mean, we were shooting Yankees. That’s what we were supposed to be doing. I could have pointed the gun right at him, I guess. But it shouldn’t have made any difference. That rifle doesn’t fire. I just don’t get it.”
Another silence fell, and I saw from the expression on Jackson Lee’s face that he had more bad news. My stomach lurched.
“Brandon,” he said, “the rifle you used during the reenactment is in good working order, according to an expert. It’s capable of shooting the bullet found in Walter Simpson.”
Brandon looked dumbfounded. Bitty sat in stone silence. I wanted to cry.
Finally I found my wits enough to ask, “Are you sure it’s the same rifle? It’s difficult to believe that a rifle that hasn’t worked in a hundred years suddenly works just fine.”
“I had my expert inspect the rifle, and we matched it up to photographs made of the rifle for Bitty’s insurance company. There were no serial numbers required in those days like there are today, but there are distinguishing marks that match.”
He spread several eight-by-ten photographs on the table. “These are the photos taken for the insurance company,” he said, pointing to four of them. “And these are the photos just taken yesterday for verification. Marks on the lock plates look identical.”
Bitty and Brandon inspected the photos, and I could tell from Bitty’s face that this wasn’t the result she had hoped for. Since I wouldn’t recognize the rifle if it was used to stir my coffee, I didn’t study the photos. It looked like the same rifle from where I sat anyway.
“So now what do we do?” I asked when it seemed Brandon and Bitty were incapable of functioning. “How do we prove that the rifle wasn’t working the last time it was used in one of the other reenactments?”
“When was the last reenactment?” Jackson Lee countered.
“April of last year,” said Bitty. She sounded so . . . defeated. I couldn’t imagine her pain and anguish at all this.
“No, New Year’s,” Brandon spoke up. “Remember, Mama? We commemorated the 1862 Battle of Stones River.”
“Is that what you did? I only recall that I thought it was silly to go off in the freezing rain. I wasn’t sure what battle you were fighting.”
“Sammy Simpson’s ancestors on his mother’s side were at the original battle outside of Murfreesboro, Tennessee,” explained Brandon. “We did it just like history reported. After the Rebels sang “Home Sweet Home” with the Yankees the night of December thirtieth, they started fighting the next morning and didn’t quit until January third, so we did all that too. Except there were only about two hundred of us but twenty-five thousand casualties in the real battle. Sammy was really into the history of it, said it was proportionately the highest loss of soldiers in a single battle during the entire war. He’d invited Clayton and me to join him and some other guys. We were glad we went, since it turned out to be a really cool battle.”
Bitty put a hand to her brow. “I think once we’re through with all this nonsense, I’m going to stop commemorating all these foolish moments in history. They weren’t good the first time around, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out now why I ever thought they were special.”
“Because those moments are our history,” I said to her. “We can’t change it, but we should never forget what happened and why. Those who forget mistakes often end up repeating them.”
Bitty looked at me. “Does this mean you’re going to reconsider your decision not to wear your dress during the pilgrimage next year?”
I stared back at her. “Of course I’ll reconsider,” I said. “I’ll let you know my decision by next March.”
A faint smile curved Bitty’s mouth. “I can’t wait to hear it.”
With some of the tension eased, Jackson Lee gathered up the photographs and put them back into his briefcase. Bitty went to get us all more sweet tea. The ice had melted in most of our glasses. I got up from the table to help.
“I’ll talk to the prosecutor and arrange it. Meanwhile, make sure your mama doesn’t dwell too much on this. It’s really hard on her.”
“I’m fine, Jackson Lee,” Bitty said over her shoulder. “I’ve come to the conclusion that someone is trying to frame Brandon, so I’m going to do something about it.”
There was a sudden, shocked silence. None of us knew what to say, not even Jackson Lee, the silver-tongued arbitrator of many disputes. We all just kind of looked at Bitty.
She turned around with the pitcher of sweet tea and saw us all staring at her. “Well? What? Did you really think I’m going to sit by and do nothing while some monster tries to make it look like my baby deliberately killed someone? No. That’s not going to happen.”
I sucked in a deep breath and looked at Jackson Lee. He had more influence over Bitty than any of us, I was sure, so he should be able to convince her that doing anything at all could be disastrous. His eyes were glazed; he looked like he’d been pole-axed. No help there. I sighed.
“Bitty,” I said, “you don’t want to do anything that will hurt Brandon. If you go off and do something stupid, it’s not going to help him.”
“Then I won’t do anything stupid. Here. Give these glasses to them, will you?” She pushed two glasses of ice and sweet tea toward me, and I took them to Brandon and Jackson Lee.
“Do something,” I murmured to Jackson Lee when I pushed the glass into his hand. “She is going to get into trouble if she isn’t stopped.”
That seemed to snap him out of his momentary shock. He gulped down a few swallows of sweet tea and cleared his throat. “Sugarplum,” he said, but when Bitty put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at him, he paused. I could see this wasn’t going to be easy for him so I intervened again.
“Bitty Hollandale, don’t you dare get involved,” I said. “I know it’s hard to just sit by and not do anything when your child is in trouble, but you cannot help him by causing chaos.”
Bitty eyed me. “If it was Michelle who was suspected of committing murder, would you just sit at home wringing your hands? No. I didn’t think so.”
She had me there, but I still tried. “Okay, maybe I wouldn’t just sit at home and wring my hands if it was my child, but I wouldn’t make things worse, either.”
“Honestly, Trinket, you act like I’m going to go door to door demanding answers.”
“It’s not like you’ve never done it before.”
“That was different. I was canvassing the area for witnesses.”
“Excuse me for thinking it’s the same thing. Going door to door asking questions about a crime cannot possibly be the same thing as going door to door asking questions about a crime.” My sarcasm was showing, so I shut up for the moment.
Finally Jackson Lee spoke up. “Bitty, sugar, you’re upset right now, and I understand that. It probably looks like Brandon has been framed, but this is all circumstantial evidence. There’s no solid foundation for a murder charge. Not even negligent homicide. We’re still gathering all the pieces of the puzzle, and when I sit down with everything, I’ll know which way to proceed. It’s going to be okay. You just have to leave everything to me.”
Bitty stared at him. “Jackson Lee, you know I trust you implicitly. I do. And I know you’re going to do a good job. But you’re not an investigator. You’re an attorney. There are times only an attorney is needed. This time I think both are needed.”
He set his glass on the kitchen table and walked to Bitty and took both her hands in his. “Sugar, I’m not Perry Mason or Ben Matlock. I don’t keep an investigator on my payroll. But I do hire one when needed. You don’t have to do anything but trust me.”
She squeezed his hands and smiled up at him. “Honey, I know that. I do trust you. But if I don’t do something, anything to help, I’ll go crazy just sitting around here, waiting on other people to act. Do you understand what I mean?”
Jackson Lee sighed. “I understand. Just let me talk to an investigator first. Then I’ll send him to you. Will you do that for me, sugar-pie?”
“Oh, honeybun, you know I’ll do anything for you,” Bitty cooed.
I looked over at Brandon. “Quick, get me some insulin. My sugar level is going through the roof.”
Brandon just laughed. I imagine he and Clayton were pretty used to all of their mother’s mercurial mood switches.
After getting Bitty’s promise to wait for an investigator to help, Jackson Lee gathered his stuff up and left. Brandon went upstairs, talking on his cell phone as he did. I looked over at Bitty. She raised her brow.
“We need to make a list of people to talk to first. Then we need to find some gun experts of our own.”
I was flabbergasted. “Bitty, you just promised Jackson Lee that you’d wait for—”
“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m waiting. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be prepared, however. Someone, somewhere, is trying to frame my son for a killing he didn’t do. If I don’t do something, this will be on his record forever.”
I was silent for a moment, then said, “It’s possible that it was an accident, just like it seems, Bitty. You do know that, right?”
“Yes, I know that it’s possible. But I’ll believe that if you’ll believe Miranda Watson is a natural blonde.”
I sighed. “Okay. I get what you’re saying. I don’t want this on Brandon’s record, either. Accidental death is not the worst thing, but it’s not something you want to follow him the rest of his life. And I think there’s something funny about all this, too. I don’t know what it is, but it’s hard to believe someone just put real bullets in their gun by mistake. What do we know about Walter Simpson?”
Bitty smiled. “Not nearly as much as we’ll know by this time tomorrow.”
Uh oh. I don’t know why I can’t keep my mouth shut.
RAYNA SCROLLED down the screen of her huge monitor, reading off the information bits she found on Walter Simpson. “He was born in 1931 in his parents’ home of Rosewood in Marshall County. Two siblings died before adulthood. His grandfather started the Simpson Surety Insurance Company in 1898, and his father continued the business, as did Walter until eight years ago when he sold it to MetLife. Walter had three children, two sons and a daughter. The oldest son died nine years ago and left his son, Sammy, as his heir. His youngest son lives in Alabama. Walter’s daughter Myrtle married Richard Grace, and they had three daughters. Deelight Tillman is one of Walter’s grandchildren, you know.”
“I didn’t think they were that close,” said Bitty. “Something to do with Deelight’s mother. Weren’t they estranged? Walter and Myrtle?”
Rayna nodded. “I think so. When Myrtle died, Walter carried on something awful. He never said, but you could tell he regretted being so mean to his only daughter.”
“He was mean to everyone. Always was. He wasn’t a bad person, but he could be just hateful.”
I looked at Bitty. “Somehow, I would think being mean and hateful would qualify as making him a bad person.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But he was very generous, gave to charities, always went to church and tithed . . . I guess that’s why people still spoke to him. He wasn’t all bad.”
“Now there’s an epitaph I want etched on my tombstone: ‘She wasn’t all bad.’”
“Or ‘Gone but not particularly missed’?” Bitty suggested.
Rayna said, “Put on my tombstone, ‘You’re standing on my face’ or ‘You could lose a few pounds.’”
We giggled like teenage girls, amused at our own jokes. It was a great mood changer. Life doesn’t have to be all grim, even in serious moments. Bitty and I have always been able to find the humor in anything, and given the choice, we’ll definitel
y laugh instead of cry. It can be unsettling at funerals, we’ve discovered. Don’t ask. Thank heavens we aren’t always blood-related to the deceased. Relatives can be so unforgiving.
“Anyway,” said Bitty as we got up to head to Rayna’s kitchen, “with his often unpleasant nature, I’m sure Walter had a few enemies who might have wanted to see him dead. We can start by talking to them.”
I looked over at her. “I hope you’re talking about your familiar,” I said, nodding toward Chen Ling. “Because I’m definitely not going to be a part of we for talking to anyone.”
Bitty ignored me and just stroked the pug’s furry little head. The dog looked smug. “Do you have any idea who might be angry enough with Walter to want him dead, Rayna?”
Rayna slid her eyes toward me and pretended she didn’t hear the question. Instead, she told us she’d just baked a fresh chocolate cream cake. That sounded much better than talking about unpleasant people, and Bitty and I both temporarily put aside all discussion of Walter Simpson.
The garden outside Delta Inn was rich with blooming flowers and impending summer. A wrought-iron table with a glass top provided a perfect place for us to light with plates and glasses of wine. Rayna’s big dogs followed us out, black labs that ambled contentedly around the garden and tactfully ignored the pug when Bitty set her on the grass. Chitling returned the favor. I did my best not to look at the railroad depot across the street. Rayna’s place faces the garden area behind the depot, now hidden from sight behind a high wooden fence with a sturdy gate. Next door to Rayna’s is Phillips Grocery, and across the street behind the railroad depot sits the remains of an old cotton compress that was knocked down by a storm a few years back.
I glanced toward the front of the railroad depot where Walter had died. No traces of yellow tape remained to mark his demise, but someone had placed a flowery wreath and a candle in glass to commemorate his passing. The beautiful swirls and curves of the Victorian and Edwardian era architecture gave mute testimony to the skills of bygone engineers and builders. New trim had replaced old, rotting boards, and the three-story structure with the cupola on top seemed to me like a grand old dame presiding over the area. The family who owns the depot will soon open it to weddings and for other venues, and renovations in the dining area are just being completed. It’s a gorgeous building and a perfect spot for festivities.
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