by Joan Hess
“Brutal.” I realized it was past noon. According to Peter, the sheriff was an affable country boy, but we had parted without any promises to keep in touch or do lunch. Wessell’s overtly hostile attack on my character had to be hot gossip in the courthouse mileu. I did not want to keep Sheriff Dorfer waiting for me. “I’d like to talk to you again, Billy. Do you think that will be all right with your grandparents?”
He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “I don’t know. They were kind of sore at me when the deputy told them I lied about seeing zombies. It wasn’t fair, because I did see them. I can’t help it if they’re stupid just like the deputy.”
“They’re not stupid,” I said as I stood up. “Adults have small imaginations. It’s too bad they didn’t see the zombies, but they didn’t.”
“Do you have a small imagination?”
“No one has ever accused me of that.” I patted his shoulder and told him I’d be back later in the afternoon or the following day. He gave me a twenty-one-cap-gun salute as I drove away.
* * *
The parking lot at the county jail was crowded. Suspecting the weekend was prime visiting time, I found a parking spot behind the courthouse and walked a half block to the yellow brick building. A sign informed me that cell phones were not allowed during visitation hours, which began at one o’clock. A woman with conical hair and heavy makeup looked at me from her desk.
“Stop here, honey,” she said. “You have to sign in before you can visit. Is it your husband enjoying our hospitality, or maybe a boyfriend?”
“I have an appointment with Sheriff Dorfer.”
She tilted her head. “On a Saturday afternoon? You must be thinking of another sheriff. Harve lit out of here two hours ago to spend the weekend fishing with his buddies. They’re on the third or fourth case of beer by now. Come back on Tuesday, but wait until after lunch. He can be meaner than a polecat when he has a hangover.”
He also had no problem skipping appointments, especially with me. Then again, he was a politician. “He’s gone for the entire weekend?”
“Maybe I can help you. My name’s LaBelle, and I know most everything about what goes on here. I’ve been the dispatcher since before Harve won his first election. What’s your name, honey?”
“Claire Malloy. My husband spoke to Sheriff Dorfer and made the appointment for me.”
LaBelle licked her cerise lips as she studied me. “Oh, yeah, you’re the women who got kicked off the jury. I wish I could have been there. Tyrell’s sister heard all about it from the court stenographer, who lives in the same apartment complex. Tyrell’s a trustee, so he gets to talk on the phone. The other inmates are too stupid to figure out how to use the pay phone. Years ago when it was a rotary phone, some of them used to keep punching the holes until their fingers swelled up.” She centered a pad of paper on her blotter and picked up a pen. “Now why don’t you tell me why you’re here so I can type a memo for Harve?”
“May I speak to the deputy who’s in charge?”
She sat back in her chair and gave me an annoyed look. “You said you wanted to see Sheriff Dorfer. What makes you think a deputy can help you?”
I wondered if salmon felt similar frustration as they battled the current to swim upstream. “I need to discuss an investigation.”
“Sarah Swift’s, right? I bet you were so pissed after Prosecutor Wessell trashed you that you decided to help her. Well, let me tell you that this department conducted a thorough investigation before charging her with murder. Harve reviewed all the reports very carefully. The prosecutor hisself came over and the two of them went through a whole box of doughnuts that morning, as well as three pots of coffee. There’s nothing in the file that ain’t squeaky clean.”
“I’m sure the investigation was conducted with utmost professionalism,” I said, easing back in case mascara flew off her eyelashes. “May I please speak to whoever is in charge today?”
“You think Frankie’s got nothing better to do than chat with a civilian? Two days ago we busted a truckload of illegal aliens from one of those Mexican countries, and the immigration service still hasn’t picked them up. We’ve been feeding them tortillas and canned beans day and night, but they keep right on griping. They should be grateful to have a roof over their heads and bunks to sleep in. Did they think they could sneak across the border and order room service at the Holiday Inn?”
“I’ll try not to waste too much of Frankie’s time.”
“You’ve already wasted too much of my mine,” she said as she jabbed a button on the phone console. She kept an eye on me as she picked up the receiver and told Frankie that “some woman” was whining about seeing him. After a few seconds, she replaced the receiver and said, “Second door on the right.”
I could feel the onset of a headache, but I gave her a bright smile and headed down the hall. From somewhere inside the building I heard loud male voices and the excited yammering of a sports announcer. I wondered if they were watching football or fútbol. I knocked on the door and opened it. The man seated behind a desk appeared to be slightly older than Caron. His head was nearly shaven, as if he were a recruit on the first day of boot camp. His upper lip was curled, exposing small, irregular teeth. Powdered sugar on his chin and chest suggested that he’d met his quota of doughnuts for the day.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I began. “I was under the impression Sheriff Dorfer would be here.”
“Not a snowball’s chance in hell he’d be here on a weekend,” the deputy said, his expression leery. “He left a note saying I should go ahead and talk to you. I’m Deputy Frank Norton. What can I do for you?”
I sat down and smiled. “My name is Claire Malloy, and I’m looking into the case against Sarah Swift. Her trial begins Tuesday, and there are a few—”
“You’re the woman what got booted off the jury! I heard you got so hysterical you had to be restrained and forcibly removed from the courtroom. Good thing your husband’s the deputy chief. Judge Priestly’s real quick to throw folks in the slammer for contempt of court. She fined some sorry-ass lawyer five hundred dollars when his cell phone rang in the middle of a trial.”
“I was not hysterical, and I walked out of the courtroom without an escort,” I said with laudable restraint. “Ms. Swift’s lawyer has authorized me to speak to the people involved in the investigation. I’d like to know which deputies arrived first at the scene.”
Frankie stiffened. “That would be me and Rick Harraldson. We took a look and called Sheriff Dorfer. He sent out the investigators. It’s all in the report we wrote for the case file.”
“Did you interview Ms. Swift?”
“I talked to her, if that’s what you mean. She was sitting on the porch swing when we pulled up. Deputy Harraldson ordered me to stay with her while he went into the barn to have a look. He was pretty shaky when he came out and got in the car to call for backup. He told me later that the black flies buzzing all over the body reminded him of when his dog got killed and he found the body two days later. I took a quick look from the doorway.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “It was bad, real bad. It’s a cold-hearted bitch that lets her husband bleed all night.”
“Sarah keeps her feelings to herself.”
“She sure as hell did that morning. I asked her what happened, and she rattled off a story about going to the barn that morning and finding his body. Said she didn’t even know he was home on account of him saying that he was going fishing with a friend. Her voice was calm, like she was reciting a grocery list. You’d think she would have cried, but she was cool as well water.”
Frankie was going to make a fine witness for the prosecution. His voice had been far from calm, and his eyes were watery. I didn’t know if he was more upset over Tuck’s body or Deputy Harraldson’s dog. “Then what happened?” I asked, my fingers metaphorically crossed that he wouldn’t tell me that Sarah had offered to cook breakfast for them.
“I went inside the house and made sure no one else was there, and then ca
me back out and asked her if she wanted to call a relative. She kind of laughed and said she didn’t have family within a thousand miles. I didn’t see why it was funny.”
“People can behave oddly when they’re in shock.” Or when confronted with the imminent arrival of a mother-in-law.
“She wasn’t too shocked to offer us iced tea while we waited for the backup team,” Frankie said. “Sheriff Dorfer would have skinned us alive if he drove up and found us sipping tea with the prime suspect.”
“Why was she the prime suspect? Her husband told her that he was going fishing, so she didn’t expect him to be home when she arrived late that night. She had no reason to go to the barn. An intruder seems more likely.”
“We considered that,” he said as if he’d taken charge of the investigation. I doubted that Deputy Harraldson let him drive—or even navigate. He opened a folder and flipped a page. “There’d been a home invasion out that way a couple of months before, but it didn’t match the modus operandi. There wasn’t anything worth stealing in the barn. What were they going to do with a bunch of old tools and tarps?”
“Perhaps they didn’t know there was nothing of value in the barn,” I suggested. “They were poking around when Tuck caught them. He’d brought the shotgun, and they got into a struggle. The shotgun went off and they fled.”
He glanced at me before he flipped another page and squinted at the print. “We considered that. The woman admits she got home at eleven. The blast was heard at midnight or thereabouts. You care to explain what happened during the hour gap?”
That was a bit of a poser, I had to admit. “They were holding him hostage when Sarah drove up. She went into the house and straight to bed. She was sound asleep when the struggle occurred.”
“You interested in buying some beachfront property out by Maggody? My uncle owns a hundred acres. Once this so-called global warming kicks in, the ocean’s gonna rise.”
I pondered several responses, but none of them would win his heart. “I’ll keep your offer in mind, Deputy Norton. Could I have a look at the file on the home invasion?”
“Not relevant. The majority of murders are committed by folks known to the victim. We took a hard look at the most obvious suspect, and when her story turned out to be a crock of lies, we arrested her. The grand jury indicted her, and now she’s going to trial. None of this has anything to do with the dumbasses what broke into that old woman’s house and stole her property.” He closed the folder. “You need to run along, Mizz Malloy. I need to make some calls about a stolen dog.”
I switched on the maternal glare. “I rarely run along. Who questioned the neighbors?”
His lower lip quavered but did not protrude. “I’ll give you five more minutes, okay?” He reopened the folder, shuffled through pages, and finally put his finger on what I presumed contained the pertinent information. “Deputy Harraldson took statements from Juniper and William Lund. The lawyer has copies, so I don’t see any reason to read them to you.”
“What about their grandson, a little boy named Billy?”
“There’s nothing in here about him.”
“He was questioned by a deputy,” I persisted. “Would that have been Deputy Harraldson?”
“Like I said, there’s nothing in here.” He again closed the folder, this time with unnecessary force. “Why don’t you come back Tuesday and talk to the sheriff? It’s my day off.”
“I’d prefer to speak to Deputy Harraldson. Is he on duty today?”
“Not hardly,” Frankie said smugly.
I was perilously close to losing my equanimity. “Is it possible that he’s at home?”
He hesitated, his lips parted as he thought this over. “I can give you his home address, but I can’t promise he’ll be any help.” He scribbled on a notepad, then tore off the sheet and pushed it across the desk. “I’ll tell Sheriff Dorfer you were here, Mizz Malloy. Have a nice day.”
I did not stalk out of his office, but my posture was perfect, and I did not glance at LaBelle as I sailed out the main door. Once I was in my car, I looked at the paper. Frankie’s penmanship was abysmal but decipherable. Deputy Harraldson purportedly lived on Jicama Drive in Mansfield, a small town in a corner of the county. I would require a map, not an insurmountable problem. The real problem was finding evidence that might lead to a not-guilty verdict, and doing so in a few short days. Since I had no idea how long the trial might last, I decided to swing by Evan Toffle’s office and resume our conversation.
I had no problem parking in front of his office, since the only vehicle there was his sad little car. The reception room was dark. I rapped my car key on the glass door. After a minute, Evan came to the doorway, looked at me without enthusiasm, and came across the room to admit me.
“Any luck?” he asked as we walked to his office.
“Maybe.” I moved a stack of law books off a chair and sat down. “Do you know about the mysterious green van?”
His expression brightened, although the wattage remained low. “It’s not mentioned in the file or the discovery material. What’s the deal?”
I told him about Miss Poppoy’s burglary and Zachery Barnard’s sightings. “The sheriff’s department failed to see any connection to Tuck’s case, so they didn’t make an effort to locate it. I’m unfamiliar with the manual on how to stage home invasions, but I’d suppose one of the hints is to watch the house prior to the main event. Miss Poppoy said she’d seen the van parked near Sarah’s mailbox.”
Evan thought for a moment. “All right, let’s hypothesize that the burglars were preparing to break into the house. Criminals are not especially intelligent, but I think they would prefer the house to be empty. Sarah claims that Tuck had already gone on his nonexistent fishing trip when she left to go to her book club meeting.”
I held up my hand. “When did she say he left?”
“She was at the café until six. He was gone when she got home. She changed clothes, ate a sandwich, and left shortly after seven. Our burglars would have seen her drive off. Sometime between then and midnight, Tuck returned from wherever he’d been. By eight thirty, it would have been getting dark. He either went inside and turned on lights, or decided to spend the night in the barn, which has no lights. Help me here, Claire.”
“Was the house dark when Sarah came home?”
He opened a folder and took out several pages. After a quick scan, he said, “She turned on a lamp in the living room before she left, so she noticed the house was dark when she got back. If that was true, Tuck was either sitting in the dark inside the house or was already in the barn.”
“William Lund told me he saw lights in the house earlier that evening.”
“So someone turned them off.”
I related my hostage scenario. “When he heard the burglars open the barn door, he took the shotgun out of the closet, turned off the light, and crept across the yard. It could have happened any time after eight. For all we know, they sat around and negotiated until Sarah drove the pickup truck up the driveway.”
“So all we have to do is find these two gentlemen and convince them to confess. Wessell won’t need more than two days to present his case, so I’ll need to have them available to testify by Thursday. Would you prefer to call them, or shall I? Gee, I hope they haven’t already made plans for the day.”
“I have dealt with sarcasm and mockery for three days in a row. My cup has runneth over, and I’m standing in a damn puddle of derision. It’s not as though I don’t have plenty of other problems. Your mother’s dog may have gone after a postal carrier, but my mother-in-law is coming to visit and I lost her damn wedding present and she will notice. Are you going to find it all that amusing when Sarah is sentenced to life in prison? Saving any tidbits of sarcasm to toss at her when she’s dragged away in handcuffs?” I realized I had risen and was poking my finger at him as if he were a hapless rotary dial. I closed my mouth and sat down. “Sorry,” I said, although I wasn’t.
“Me, too. This is my first murder trial, a
nd I’m feeling the pressure. I should have specialized in wills and trusts. I’d be working sixty-hour weeks in the basement of some big firm, but I wouldn’t be responsible for destroying someone’s future.”
“You’re not responsible, Evan. Sarah should have divorced her husband years ago and gone on her merry way.”
“No kidding. I asked her why she hung around, and all she said was that she’d been stuck with him for better or worse. I can’t think of anything worse than spending your life with someone you loathe. Back when I was assigned to the case, I had a girlfriend. She was dropping hints about getting married, and I was mulling it over. By the time Sarah was indicted by the grand jury, I’d soured on the idea of any kind of permanent relationship. Last month I received a wedding invitation from Debbie. She’s marrying one of the senior partners at her law firm.”
I wasn’t sure whether I should applaud or console him. “There are plenty of happy marriages out there.”
“Do they all come with mothers-in-law?”
I took a deep breath. “Let’s review what I’ve found out thus far and come up with a plan to save Sarah, shall we?”
6
Our planning session was brief, since neither of us had much to contribute. We did agree that we needed Sarah’s input. Evan phoned her, but she didn’t answer. Deputy Harraldson’s telephone number was unlisted. The only other person I could think of to call was Caron, but I wasn’t in the mood to be berated for interrupting her mission to find and retrieve the holiest of the grails.
I left Evan hunkered behind a stack of law books and drove to Mansfield, courtesy of a map drawn on Legal Aid stationery. Although the town boasted a traffic light, it lacked street signs. After a few aimless forays, I was heading back to the business district (a convenience store) for directions when I saw, with mixed emotions, a yard sale. The house was beyond unpretentious, but most likely safe from condemnation. I parked at the edge of the unpaved street and walked up the gravel driveway. A woman dressed in a muumuu and flip-flops, with massively bushy hair and a faint mustache, lowered her face to peer at me over her sunglasses.