by Joan Hess
I stopped as a metaphorical lightning bolt struck the top of my head, splattering my composure. Peter’s mother was more likely to be accustomed to filet mignon with Béarnaise sauce than hamburgers, potato salad, and baked beans. Mrs. Jorgeson might have her grandmother’s treasured recipe, but Luanne had informed me that her recipe for baked beans began with a can opener.
“Are you okay?” Jorgeson said, his hand on my arm. “Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?”
“I can’t,” I croaked. Would all the caterers be booked because of the three-day holiday? There could be dozens of weddings scheduled for Saturday and Sunday. I could learn to make Béarnaise sauce, given time to practice. Peter could grill asparagus along with the steaks. Baked potatoes would be too gauche, but I could find a recipe for mushroom risotto. Would the bakeries be closed on Labor Day? I realized I was on the brink of breaking into a sweat.
Jorgeson tightened his grip as I began to wobble. “I do think you should sit down, Ms. Malloy. The deputy chief’s meeting should be over any minute. Why don’t you come back into my office while I call him?”
“I don’t have time for solicitude. I may alter the menu on Monday, but I’ll let Mrs. Jorgeson know tonight so you won’t have to waste a trip to the farmers’ market.”
“Mrs. Rosen butters her toast like the rest of us,” he said.
“Unless the butler butters it for her.” I patted him on the cheek and returned to my car. For the record, I was not the victim of mother-in-law brutality. Carlton’s mother, Miss Jessica, had not been the most likable person, but I’d found her amusingly eccentric in our encounters before she was murdered by a greedy family member. I need not elaborate on who exposed the murderer.
Trying to recall the ingredients in Béarnaise sauce, I drove to the Legal Aid office, located in what had been a bus depot before the city bought and renovated it. As I went inside, I noticed that the original redolence still lingered, a noxious combination of exhaust fumes, bleach, and unwashed bodies.
The receptionist eyed me. “Yes?”
“I have an appointment with Evan Toffle.”
“Down the hall, on the right.”
Evan was seated behind one of the three desks jammed in the room. Much of the remaining floor space had been dedicated to filing cabinets, wastebaskets, crumpled paper balls, and mismatched chairs for clients. The sole window offered a view of the back of an office building. No one had attempted to nurture a potted plant.
“Hey,” he said as I came into the room. “Sit anywhere. My colleagues are gone for the day.” He gestured at the pile of folders and open law books on his desk. “This isn’t my idea of how to spend Labor Day weekend, but here I am. I, uh, don’t quite know how to address you. Wessell made a muddle of the issue.”
“Please, call me Claire. Sarah told you that I’ve offered to try to help her.” I sat down on a chair across from him. “I hope that doesn’t offend you.”
He cleared his throat. “I looked you up online.”
“The newspaper articles exaggerate my involvement,” I said modestly. “I may have stepped in when the detectives overlooked a clue or two, but my assistance was nominal. Prosecutor Wessell made me sound like a caped avenger. I am simply a concerned citizen.”
“Yeah,” he said, “and I can use all the help I can get. Wessell has a strong case, as well as thirty years of squashing defendants. I graduated and passed the bar two years ago.”
“Why didn’t one of the more experienced attorneys take this case?”
“I got stuck with it in mid-August, prime vacation time for those with enough clout to dictate their schedules. I was in the courtroom, waiting for another arraignment, when the judge nailed me. The consensus in the office is that Sarah killed her husband after a domestic blowup, and that she’d accept a plea bargain for manslaughter. No trial, no headlines.” He gave me a pained grin. “That would have required her to plead guilty, which she won’t. It also would have required Wessell to offer her a deal, which he won’t. He has his eye on an upcoming vacancy in the district federal court.”
“So I heard,” I said. “How strong is his case against Sarah?”
Evan picked up a file, glanced at it, sighed, and tossed it back in the pile. “He’s got motive. The ladies from the book club will testify that Sarah was angry at her husband. At the last meeting she said that she wanted to kill him because he’d forgotten to pick up her prescription before he left town. She was joking, of course, but the jury may not share her sense of humor. She—”
“Prescription?” I said. “For what?”
“An antidepressant. She admitted that she’s been taking them for twenty years, on and off. I suggested that we consider bringing up the possibility of mental impairment, but she refused to consider it. She said living with her husband would depress anyone.” He closed his eyes. “She shared this with her book club ladies. Wessell can’t drag in her therapist, but he can emphasize the point that she used drugs. I don’t know the name of the particular antidepressant, but I can almost guarantee that it carries a warning not to drink alcohol while taking it—which Sarah did. Wessell will characterize that as recklessness on her part. If I bring up temporary mental incapacity, he’ll point out that she should have been familiar with the potential side effects.”
“Let’s move on, shall we?” I said, trying to hide my discouragement. Evan needed all my positive energy; he looked as though he might lapse into tears at any moment. Not a good sign in a lawyer. “Sarah told me that she drove home, went to bed, and wasn’t awakened by any loud noises. Maybe the combination of the drug and alcohol knocked her out.”
“If she’d actually taken any pills. She’d run out several days earlier. That’s why she was so annoyed when Tuck didn’t pick up the prescription. I asked her if she had more to drink after she got home, but she said no. The only liquor in the house was a dusty bottle of cooking sherry. No empty bottles in the trash or in the truck.” He picked up the folder again, and for a moment I thought he was going to fling it at me. I was preparing to duck when he dropped it. “I’ve never fired any kind of gun. After I was assigned to the case, I went out to a gun club facility and asked for a demonstration. A twelve-gauge shotgun makes a remarkably loud noise. The estimated decibel range is one hundred and sixty-five. To put that in perspective, you’re in pain at one hundred and twenty-five decibels, and in danger of permanent hearing damage at one hundred and forty decibels. The neighbors from the next farm heard the blast. Their house is maybe two hundred yards away. Sarah’s bedroom is less than a hundred feet away.”
“She must be a sound sleeper,” I said.
“Very sound.”
“Earplugs?”
He shook his head. “No, and the investigators will testify that she had no problem hearing them. One of them called to her while she was upstairs, and she answered him.”
This was not going well. I was relieved that Evan Toffle was not a total incompetent, but Sarah might need Johnnie Cochran, F. Lee Bailey, and the rest of the team to avoid a guilty verdict. “Did she tell you about a burglary in the area earlier that summer? Two men broke into a neighbor’s house, tied her up, and made off with her silver and other miscellaneous objects.”
Evan made a note on a yellow pad. “No, she didn’t. I’ll request the report from the sheriff’s office. Do you think it’s relevant?”
“Not especially,” I admitted. I related my two hypothetical scenarios that explained how the shotgun had ended up in the closet. When he failed to voice admiration for my ingenuity, I said, “The two men were never caught. It’s possible they were skulking in the area and noticed the house was dark.”
“If the house was dark, maybe, but it wasn’t. Tuck was home. According to what Sarah told me, Tuck had gone on a fishing trip with the guy across the pasture.” He opened the folder. “William Lund denied any knowledge of this. One of them lied about it, but that still puts Tuck in the house before midnight.”
“All we know is that he was in the
barn,” I countered. “Was the medical examiner sure about the time of death?”
Evan found another piece of paper. “Within a four-hour period, yes. The Lunds both confirmed hearing the shotgun right about midnight. Based on coagulation, body temperature, seepage, and some scientific jargon, death occurred between midnight and four o’clock. The medical examiner will testify with a high degree of certainty. We can’t call in another expert who might have a different opinion because it’s not in our budget. I felt like a fool when I asked.” Grumbling unhappily, he closed the folder and templed his fingers. “Sarah’s story is that she got home before eleven, brushed her teeth, and went to bed. She heard nothing out of the ordinary. The next morning she woke up at seven, had breakfast while she listened to the radio, and went out to the barn. When she saw the body, she knelt down and determined that he was dead. She went into the house, called the sheriff’s department, and was sitting on the porch steps when the first deputies arrived twenty minutes later.”
“Could he have been shot elsewhere?”
“Not according to the crime scene investigators, who documented the blood splatters. Even if they’re wrong, how do you explain the fact that the neighbors heard the shotgun blast?”
“They’re lying,” I said.
“An interesting idea, granted, but it doesn’t explain why Sarah didn’t. The head of the CSI and the medical examiner would have to be in on it, too. I don’t see how I can discredit both of them—and prove the Lunds lied.” I was trying to concoct an explanation when his phone rang. He shrugged an apology as he picked up the receiver. After several minutes of silence, he said, “It’s okay. I can be there in half an hour. Don’t cry, for pity’s sake. Just stay calm and wait for me.”
“A client?” I asked as he hung up.
“My mother’s dog attacked the postal carrier, who called his supervisor, who is on his way with the police and an ambulance. Whatever you do, don’t mess with a federal employee.” He took folders and put them in a shiny briefcase. “I have to go, Claire. My mother’s in hysterics. I’ll give you my cell phone number. If you think of any way to save Sarah Swift, call me.” He handed me his card.
I picked up my purse. “Let me ask you something, Evan. Do you believe she’s innocent?”
He hesitated. “It doesn’t matter if I do or don’t. All I can do is present the best defense I can.”
I followed him out to the parking lot and watched as he drove off in a subcompact that looked older than he was. As I paused to consider his response, the receptionist came out the front door and locked it. She avoided looking at me as she climbed onto a motorscooter, put on a helmet, and sputtered away to enjoy the long weekend.
I was not destined to enjoy any part of the weekend, I thought as I leaned against the hood of my car. I did have time to dash to the mall to buy towels and then sneak them upstairs before Peter came home. I also had time to swing by the Book Depot and utilize the computer to find a recipe for Béarnaise sauce, as well as Béchamel, Mornay, and Hollandaise, purchase the ingredients, and serve them over whatever I found in the refrigerator. Or I could try to help Sarah and make a fool out of Prosecutor Edwin Wessell (aka the Weasel).
Decisions, decisions.
4
I reached Sarah’s turnoff without seeing a sign for Pinkie Sheer Road, so I continued onward, my head swiveling as if I were watching an indolent tennis match. Several unpaved roads disappeared into the woods. I was reluctant to explore any of them, since the last thing on my agenda was a flat tire in the middle of nowhere. I finally saw a yard sale in progress in front of a mobile home and pulled into the driveway. Two women in folding chairs, both with fiercely bleached hair and beer cans in hand, watched me intently as I got out of my car. I acknowledged them with a smile and then studied the array of miscellany on card tables. Having spotted nothing remotely charming, I picked up a chipped saucer with a faintly visible depiction of Old Faithful.
“How much?” I asked as I approached the women.
“Fifty cents,” said one of them.
I took out my wallet and found two quarters. “This must be a souvenir of your trip to Yellowstone.”
“She bought it at a flea market,” said the second woman. “Paid a nickel, if I recall.”
The first woman cackled. “Maybe, but it’s worth fifty cents now.”
“It certainly is,” I said as I gave her the coins. “By the way, do you know where Pinkie Sheer Road is?”
“Why you lookin’ for it?”
“I’m hoping to find Zachery Barnard. I was told he lives around here.”
The second woman finished her beer and crumpled the can with her hand. The snake tattooed on her bicep squirmed. “That old fart? Nobody with a lick of sense wants to find him, not even the census taker. He’d sooner spit in your face as give you the time of day. Did you notice the clothes on the rack over there? I reckon you and me are about the same size.”
We would be if I gained fifty pounds. “I’m in kind of a hurry. Can you give me directions to Mr. Barnard’s house?”
She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “You sure you don’t have time to look at the clothes? You might find some real sweet bargains.”
The first woman snorted. “She don’t look like she wears used clothes, Taffy.”
“Oh, I do,” I said hastily. “My best friend owns a secondhand clothing store in Farberville. Why don’t I take a quick look at what’s on the rack?”
I ended up with a pair of plaid shorts, a blouse with discolored armpits, a plastic pitcher, a necklace made of seashells, and three well-thumbed issues of People magazine. After I’d handed over seven dollars and forty-five cents, the women told me that Pinkie Sheer Road was the next turn on the right. They were taking beers out of a cooler as I pulled onto the county road. The money had been well spent, I thought, since the dirt road lacked a sign. I’d been told Mr. Barnard lived in the first house past a pond. The pond was green and brought to mind images of algae-draped creatures arising from its depths. “House” was a polite term for the ramshackle structure with a swayback roof, broken windows, trash strewn in the weeds, an outbuilding of no discernible use, and a sign that warned me to beware of dogs.
I was losing enthusiasm for my mission as I cut off the engine and listened for barking. There was no indication that the house was currently inhabited, but the two women had assured me “that sumbitch Barnard” rarely ventured out since he was “drunk as a skunk afore noon.” An old pickup truck was parked beside the house. Two deflated tires and a bird’s nest above the dashboard suggested Mr. Barnard hadn’t gone anywhere for some time.
“Hello,” I called as I approached the front door. “Anybody home?”
A dog barked, albeit in the distance. Although I might lack the grace of a gazelle, I was prepared to match its speed if the barking grew louder. I knocked on the door and then stepped back in case I needed a head start. “Hello!” I called more loudly. “Mr. Barnard? I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. I’m here on behalf of Sarah Swift.”
The only response came from a malevolent blue jay on a fence post. Frowning, I turned around and trudged toward my car, wondering if I might have better luck if Sarah agreed to accompany me. I’d opened the car door when a voice behind me said, “What do ya want to know?”
The speaker was not the surly gnome I’d been led to expect. He was close to six feet tall and lean, with heavily tattooed forearms. Stringy gray hair brushed his shoulders. His stare from behind wire-rimmed glasses seemed sober. He might have purchased the baggy jeans and denim shirt from a thrift shop (or a convenient yard sale), but he wouldn’t have been out of place in the pool hall on Thurber Street.
“I’m helping with Sarah’s defense,” I said. “A year ago, after burglars broke into Miss Poppoy’s home, you told an investigator that you’d seen a dark green van in the vicinity.”
“And?”
“Do you remember anything else about it? Did you happen to notice the license plate?”
/> “No.”
He was not the most cooperative witness I’d encountered, nor the most verbose. I did my best not to sound impatient. “The two men were never apprehended, so it’s possible they were responsible for the shooting. If they saw Sarah drive away, they could have assumed the house was empty.”
“The guy was shot in the barn.”
“So they decided to steal a tractor. I really don’t know. How many times did you notice the van, and where?”
He came toward me, his arms crossed. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Claire Malloy. I live in Farberville and run a bookstore.”
“And you’re a friend of Sarah’s?”
“I’m the only friend she has right now,” I said, struggling to keep an edge out of my voice. “Her trial begins Tuesday, and her lawyer’s going to have a tough time convincing the jury that she’s innocent. It will help if he can throw out some alternative suspects—like the men in the van.” I wondered if I could bribe him with a plastic pitcher and old magazines, but I settled for a sigh. “I apologize for dragging you away from whatever you were doing. This has been a waste of time for both of us. Have a pleasant Labor Day weekend.”
I’d reached my car when he said, “Sorry I can’t help. I just saw the van out of the corner of my eye when I drove by it. Once it was parked by the bridge, another time at the turnoff to a private road. Didn’t see the driver, didn’t glance at the license plate. You think Sarah will be convicted?”
I looked back. “Yes, I do.”
“Damn shame.” He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. “‘When lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, what charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away?’”
“It’s going to take more than art,” I said drily as I got in my car. He stood in the weedy yard and watched me as I backed out to the road. I didn’t wave. I could understand why the investigators had dismissed Barnard’s vague statement. My best bet was Miss Poppoy, who could have recalled more details after her initial shock had faded. She would have to wait until the next day, since it was late in the afternoon and I needed to go home.