“Jo’s Craft Corner.”
“Mrs. McAllister?”
Jo tensed as she recognized the voice. “Yes?”
“Lieutenant Morgan here. There’s something I want to discuss with you. I’d like to see you today, if you please.”
If I please? And if I say no, Lieutenant, what then?
Morgan added, “You may bring your lawyer, of course.”
Her lawyer? Was he laughing at her, calling her bluff? Or did he really think she had one?
“What time?” she asked, as smoothly as she could manage.
“Within the hour would be good.”
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
Jo, with great effort, replaced the phone carefully, then sat gripping it and staring into space. She caught Carrie’s concerned glance as she bagged her customer’s sale. Carrie came over as soon as the woman left the store.
“Something wrong?”
“He wants me down at the station again.”
“Lieutenant Morgan?”
Jo nodded.
“What about?”
“He didn’t say. But he said I could bring my lawyer if I liked.” Jo laughed grimly.
“Oh, Jo, maybe it’s time you did get one.”
Jo didn’t answer.
“Dan and I would be more than glad to chip in.”
“No, absolutely not.”
“Then what about a public defender?”
Jo sighed, and got up. She pushed her chair into place, and kept hold of its back. “I already checked into that. I’m not eligible.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, really. It seems I don’t meet the poverty guidelines. Although I sunk nearly every penny I had into the store, it now counts as an asset. And, even if I’m not yet drawing a measurable income, it seems they can go by what I’m expected to produce with a business like this. I’m simply not poor enough.” Jo laughed. “Of course, they haven’t seen the threadbare, second hand furniture in my rented house, nor my Mother Hubbard pantry.”
“That’s outrageous.”
“No, it’s simply your government saving your tax dollars. You probably should be glad.”
Carrie looked at Jo glumly. “Then let Dan and me—”
“No, Carrie. No way.” Jo reached for her purse, and started for the door.
“Wait, Jo,” Carrie said, stopping her. “Let me make a couple calls. There’s a lawyer you might be able to afford. I can’t think of his name, but I’ve heard he’s sort of semi-retired. You really need someone.”
Jo hesitated. “Well, see what you can dig up. If he’s available, and cheap, maybe.” She spread a large cloth over her jewelry workplace, as Carrie made her calls, to a neighbor, a fellow soccer-mom, and then, apparently the affordable lawyer’s office. She handed Jo a slip of paper with Earnest C. Ainsworthy’s address on it.
“He’s on the way to police headquarters. And he’s very reasonable.”
“Okay, thanks Carrie. I’ll give him a try.”
<><><>
Jo sat in Lt. Morgan’s office, Earnest C. Ainsworthy beside her. He had patted her hand, paternally after they had been ushered in by the uniformed young woman who informed them Lt. Morgan would be with them shortly.
“Don’t you worry, now, little lady. Everything will be just fine.”
Jo managed to smile back, but she wasn’t so sure about that. She had located Ainsworthy’s office, expecting something modest, which it was. Situated above a real estate office, the law office consisted of a tiny, unmanned reception area, then a small inner office occupied by Earnest C. However, being told he was semi-retired led Jo to expect a white-haired, elderly gentleman. Earnest was a pot-bellied man in his fifties at most, with more dark hair than white, and, rather than the wise, elder statesman she had hoped for, seemed more interested in locating his missing tie clip than listening to her story. Not altogether reassuring, but she assumed he would be better than nothing, and, considering his modest fee, retained him.
As they drove together to the police headquarters, however, Jo caught the alarming whiff of alcohol emanating from him. Now they sat side by side, waiting for the appearance of the lieutenant, Jo was not feeling entirely bolstered by the presence of this counselor.
She glanced around the room as they waited for Morgan to appear. Giving us time to stew, she thought, as she half-seriously checked around for the spotlight Morgan might turn on her face while demanding her answers. She found only fluorescents, high on the ceiling and useless for zeroing in on guilty suspects. Surely Earnest C. will block any attempts at bullying, Jo assured herself. And Morgan wouldn’t unnerve her simply because she wasn't hiding anything.
She looked around for any signs of the lieutenant’s personal side, such as family photos, then remembered Javonne Barnett had said he was single. Single-divorced or single never married? Either way, she saw no photos of children. If he had none, weren’t there nieces and nephews he might care about? What about friends? The walls were bare of softball team photos and even awards. The room contained nothing beyond essentials, and the effect was cold. Probably, she thought, exactly what he intended.
The door opened, and Morgan strode in. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.
Jo’s lawyer stood up and held out his hand. “Earnest C. Ainsworthy, representing Mrs. McAllister.” They shook hands, and both sat down, the lieutenant behind his grey metal desk.
“Okay, then,” Morgan said. He opened a file he had brought in with him and scanned it for a few moments before looking up.
“Mrs. McAllister, your husband, Michael McAllister, was killed in an explosion.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Jo said it calmly, though the familiar pain sucked at her heart to think of that day.
“What exactly happened?”
What was this about, Jo wondered. She glanced at Ainsworthy, but he offered no advice, so she answered as evenly as she could, “We don’t know precisely, but Mike worked with acetylene tanks. He did metal sculptures. Something malfunctioned and caused the explosion. That’s all we know.”
“Something malfunctioned.” Morgan looked at her as if expecting more.
“Yes.”
“Was that a highly unusual thing? I mean, I presume there are safeguards against that kind of thing happening.”
“Yes, I thought so too. As I said, after looking into it, no one could tell me what went wrong. The explosion and fire destroyed nearly everything, so it was impossible to determine. Why are you asking me this?”
“So there was an investigation? The authorities in New York City searched for a reason for this explosion?”
“Yes, of course.” From his frequent glances at the file, Jo was certain he had copies of the reports before him. But why?
“You and your husband shared this loft that was destroyed.”
“Yes, we did.”
“For how many years?”
Jo thought back. “I believe, about five years.”
“And your husband worked at his metal sculptures, with acetylene tanks for those five years.”
“Yes, he did.”
“There was no problem before this?”
“Obviously not.”
“How did you and your husband get along?”
“Lieutenant Morgan, what does all this have to do with Kyle Sandborn?” Jo could feel her temper rising. Was that what Morgan wanted, though? The thought, unfortunately ratcheted her anger even higher. She looked at Ainsworthy for help, but he made no objection to Morgan’s line of questioning, his hands folded calmly over his high mound of belly. His eyes seemed focused on the front edge of Morgan’s desk.
“Did you and your husband have marital problems?” Morgan asked.
“No!”
“You received payment of his life insurance, and shortly after that, you moved here.”
“Yes, and I’m sure you know exactly how much that payment was, and how thinly it had to be stretched in my efforts to start a new life. I did not set up my husband�
��s death, a husband I dearly loved, in case you care, in order to live a life of luxury here in Abbotsville.”
Morgan simply looked at her for a few moments, then turned a page in the file before him and began a new tack.
“Mrs. McAllister, did you, when you lived in New York, have dealings with a Niles P. Sandborn?”
Jo’s shock must have shown, since Morgan looked gratified.
“Niles? Where did you dig him up?” Why was her life suddenly being examined? What was going on?
“You had business with him?”
“Yes, at one time. He is a dealer. He bought jewelry from me, for a while.”
“Was your relationship amicable?”
“As a matter of fact, no, it was not, at least not always. When I got tired of his late payments, and other finagling I put an end to it.”
“You put an end to it?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t the other way around?”
“Oh, Lord. What did he tell you? Yes, I know Niles tried to sue me for breach of contract. But it came to nothing. Our “contract” was quite flexible, allowing either of us to end it easily, and he knew it. He was just blowing smoke.”
“I suppose you never threatened him either?”
“Lieutenant Morgan, what is going on here? Does the fact that a crime happened to take place in my storeroom give you the right to invade my privacy? Does it automatically make me the prime suspect? The only suspect? For heaven’s sake, look for someone who actually knew the victim, why don’t you? I never even saw Kyle before he showed up at my store in his clown suit.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No!” Jo nearly shouted it. She drew a breath to say more, but something in Morgan’s face stopped her. “What?” she asked.
“You never encountered the victim, Kyle Sandborn, in New York, during that entire period you dealt with his uncle, Niles Sandborn?”
“Niles Sand....” Jo’s voice died in her throat. “His uncle? I, I never made the connection. We seldom used each other’s last name. I barely remembered what it was.”
“You barely remembered the name of the man who threatened you with a law suit?”
“Yes,” Jo answered weakly, acutely aware that Morgan didn’t believe her. She looked desperately to Ainsworthy whose eyes were now closed. To her horror she heard a soft snore rise from him.
Morgan drilled on. “Kyle Sandborn went to visit his uncle in New York regularly. He stayed with him so he could go on auditions, and occasionally helped him in his business. Niles Sandborn is positive you met his nephew.”
“If he says so, perhaps I did. But I doubt the man was in clown make-up at the time, don’t you, Lieutenant?”
“So you admit you did know him?”
“I said ‘perhaps’, didn’t I?”
“I’m wondering why you never mentioned this to us, Ms. McAllister, this prior connection to the victim.”
“I’m wondering why I bothered to come here and listen to these outlandish insinuations, Lieutenant Morgan. In fact I refuse to listen to any more. If you have something to charge me with, you know where to find me.”
Jo stood, exchanging glares with the man behind the desk, holding her breath at the same time to see if in fact he would charge her with some ridiculous, trumped up charge of murder, or manslaughter, or whatever he thought would hold water. When he remained silent, she shook Earnest C. Ainsworthy, who woke with a series of coughs and snuffles.
“Come on, let’s go,” Jo said, dragging him upwards.
She heard Ainsworthy stumbling through his “good-days” to Morgan, but she reached for the door, unwilling to look at Morgan and see the sneer that was likely gracing his face. Their exit wasn’t as forceful as her last one, as Ainsworthy seemed unable to negotiate the maze of desks with any rapidity. Eventually, though, they made their way out, Jo’s emotions swinging between relief – at actually leaving – and anger and amazement over the whole unbelievable situation.
What the heck, she wondered, was going on?
CHAPTER 11
Jo dropped Ainsworthy back at his office, struggling through gritted teeth to remain civil to her so-called lawyer as he mumbled inanities laced with legal jargon. Delighted to see him finally stumble out of her sight, she began to drive back to the Craft Corner, her foot heavy on the gas pedal, until she realized there was no way she’d be able to calmly resume work on her jewelry. Nor did she want to face Carrie’s questions. She needed time to cool down, to gather her thoughts. She turned toward the little park she had passed often on her drives between home and work, and hoped that in the middle of a school day it would be unpopulated and quiet, offering her a few moments of peace.
Her hopes rose as she pulled into the parking lot and saw only two cars in an area that could hold twenty. Jo got out and began a rapid walk, following a paved lane that wound past rhododendron and azalea plantings, all long past their bloom times and readying for the cold weather that was to come. A cool breeze hinted it was already on its way, and Jo pulled her light cardigan together more tightly and brushed back the dark bangs that had blown into her eyes. She came to a statue of a man in Civil War uniform, and paused to check out the engraved sign at its base, while slowing down her breathing as best she could.
A white-haired man in grey shorts and T-shirt jogged by, puffing out a breathy, “mornin’.” Jo returned the greeting, managing a stiff smile, then turned back to the bronze General. Brigadier General Jeremiah Boggsworth, she learned, scanning the sign, was a native son of Abbotsville, born in 1811. He had died during the War Between the States in 1862, not in a blaze of glory on the battlefield, unfortunately, but of infection caused by a rusty horseshoe nail. Poor General Boggsworth, Jo thought. Done in by an ignominious puncture. Not unlike Kyle. It was just her miserable luck that Kyle’s occurred in her craft shop.
Jo sighed, and pushed her hands into the pockets of her sweater. She moved on, running over the previous hour spent enduring Russ Morgan’s near-accusations. They continued to make her blood boil, but she realized her situation had grown even more serious. Morgan seemed determined to find that final link that would let him charge her with murder. She could almost hear the prosecutor’s words to the jury, as she sat trembling behind the defendant’s table:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I put it to you that what we have here is a cold blooded murderer. This woman allowed nothing to stand in her way – not a husband whose death would bring her riches, nor a poor, struggling actor who happened to be witness to her....”
Her what? What did Russ Morgan think Kyle knew about her that she would be willing to murder him for? What was Niles hinting about her? Jo knew Niles could be unconscionable in his business dealings, but what would he stoop to, what lies would he tell or maybe even half-believe in a misguided attempt at family revenge? Did he truly believe Jo was guilty of his nephew’s murder?
Whatever was going on, it was clear Jo needed to find out the truth of what happened in her storeroom before some wild, devious theory was devised and then believed by one and all. Until now, she had been dabbling at investigation, humoring her crafting ladies and reassuring herself that she was doing something active. Now the stakes had been raised. Jo needed to find out who actually killed Kyle Sandborn, and find out fast, while she was still a free woman.
What exactly had she managed to dig up about Kyle? His co-workers at the country club hinted that he liked to poke into other people’s business and imagine wrongdoing on little evidence. Not unlike his Uncle Niles, Jo laughed grimly, then wondered: had she met Kyle in New York?
Jo thought back to her few visits to Niles’ consignment shop, on Broadway, north of Houston. There had always been people around such as sales clerks and customers looking for bargains. Occasionally he had introduced her as a jewelry designer, but she didn’t recall ever meeting a nephew. If it had happened, it had been a nonevent, a quick introduction in passing, something neither of them would remember. It boggled her mind that Niles was suddenly making such
a point of it.
She moved on to the people at the Abbotsville Playhouse. Genna, the actress who would have played opposite Kyle if he’d lived, had a boyfriend who seemed to have been unhappy with that fact. This definitely bore investigation. Jo needed to talk to Genna.
A high-pitched screech jarred Jo out of her thoughts. She looked up, startled, and realized she had come to a small playground. A young mother stood beside her toddler who was strapped into a baby swing, laughing delightedly. The mother’s arm pushed automatically as she simultaneously carried on a conversation with another young woman whose baby sat in a stroller.
How contented they look, Jo thought, feeling a flash of envy for those who appeared to have uncomplicated lives, filled with simple joys. She and Mike had occasionally discussed having children, but always ended up putting it off to some undefined time when things were “right”. Had that been the right or wrong decision, considering the turn her life had taken? She had since tried not to agonize over it. What was done was done, or perhaps not done, and she directed any surfacing maternal feelings toward Carrie’s two as the need arose.
The woman at the swing looked over and smiled, and Jo strolled in that direction, having wearied of her solitude. The toddler wiggled and pointed, along with more screeches, clearly signaling “I want out!” His mother complied, and watched him dotingly as he ran to a nearby Jungle Jim and grabbed onto its lower bars, sidestepping on the packed mulch beneath.
Jo sat down on a nearby bench, tucked between two spruces and somewhat protected from the hair-tossing breeze. The toddler, apparently constitutionally unable to stay in one place for more than a minute or two, suddenly came careening towards Jo, and she caught him as he stumbled on a tree root.
“Whoops! Here you go,” she said, setting him back on his feet.
“Thank you,” his mother, a pretty blond-haired woman, called. She hurried over and sat on the other end of the bench. “Cory, when are you going to tire yourself out enough for a nap?” she asked with mock exasperation. She pulled a small bottle of apple juice out of her tote and handed it to her son, who immediately sank to the ground to suck at it.
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