by Emily James
Ken sat at the picnic table. I took a seat on the bench next to him at a friendly distance. Anderson slid in on the other side. It was textbook perfect framing.
It gave me a strange sense of déjà vu, as if I was working with a younger, less arrogant version of my dad.
I rested one arm casually on the top of the picnic table and gave Ken an I’m-no-threat smile. Mark would have called it quasi-flirting. It was the smile I knew would soften Ken up enough that he might share with me things he wouldn’t share with someone else.
“Before we start, I wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss.”
Ken jerked slightly and his cheeks flushed, as if his heart rate spiked.
It told me all I needed to know about their relationship. They’d been more than friends. They’d also been trying to keep it a secret.
I’d taken a gamble in deciding to play it as if we knew and had evidence that he and Sandra were having an affair. Now I had to hope it worked.
“I’ve lost people I care about,” I said, adding the next layer—the one where we had something in common. “So we’ll try not to intrude on your grief for very long. In your statement to the police, you said you thought Sandra and Dean were having trouble in their marriage. Other than the obvious, did you have any reason to think that?”
He stared at me like I’d slapped him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I barely knew either of them.” He stood to his feet and angled toward the gate. “Everything I told the police is accurate, so I don’t know how much more help I can be. It’d be better if you left.”
Crap. I didn’t know which was worse, striking out so hard or doing it in front of Anderson. And basically wasting his time.
I trailed after Anderson out the gate and back around to our cars. I didn’t even want to look at him.
I pulled out my phone. I could delay facing him for a few seconds and try to pull myself out of the embarrassment gutter. Before I forgot, I needed to set Dean to work on fixing his place up some. “I just need to send a quick text.”
Get rid of the flowers in the backyard asap, I wrote to Dean. And fix the fence. Buyers are worried about both.
I put my phone away and turned my keys around in my hand. I should offer Anderson an out. He might not want to waste his Saturday on someone who called him out here to botch an interview—especially when interviewing was supposed to be my strength. Had I pushed too hard?
I wasn’t even sure if I should own up to my goof or pretend like it was nothing. My pride couldn’t decide which was worse. With the former choice, it meant acknowledging my failing, and with the latter, I looked completely incompetent because I’d screwed up and didn’t even know it.
I’d rather at least have him know I realized the damage I’d done. “I’m sorry for dragging you out here for nothing.”
Anderson had his keys out as well. “It wasn’t for nothing. That was gutsy. It’s the kind of move your dad would have made. I don’t know that I would have thought of it.” His smile contained too much admiration. “Where should we go for lunch?”
My skin felt squirmy, like it wasn’t comfortable on my body. His words came much too close to flattery. I couldn’t risk a continued misunderstanding if there was one. This was even worse than the failed interview.
I licked my lips. “This is a business lunch, right?”
He ran a hand around the collar of his shirt and stretched his neck out. “I might have thought it could be dual purpose until I saw the ring.”
I ran my thumb over the underside of the band. If I’d had more experience dating, I might have known exactly what to say. As it was, my mind had turned into a giant black hole.
He still had a hand behind his neck. “That’s not your fault. I’ve modeled my whole career off your dad, and part of what makes his business so successful is your mom. When you called the other day, I thought it might be fate.”
I let myself snort this time. “You might not have been so keen if you knew me. Interviews are usually my strength. I’m a mess in the courtroom.”
He made a you’re-only-trying-to-make-me-feel-better face.
“That’s not my only failing either.” I held my hand up beside my mouth like I was about to share a secret. “I won’t defend someone unless I think they’re innocent.”
Anderson laughed. He lowered his arm to his side. “That’s something I wouldn’t have expected from Edward Dawes’ daughter. How are you going to work with your parents if you won’t defend someone who’s guilty?”
For the first time since the initial call I’d made to him, it felt like he was talking to me, Nicole, rather than to Edward Dawes’ daughter. “If you’re still interested in grabbing lunch, I’ll tell you all about it.”
21
“Are you going to wait until the trial and question Ken then?” Anderson asked after we’d talked—and laughed together—about my predicament and the trouble I’d gotten myself into in the past year.
I twirled a piece of lettuce around on my fork. Since I had a wedding dress to fit in to in a few months, I’d opted for a salad instead of the burger and fries on Anderson’s plate that looked much more enticing.
Setting aside the fact that I didn’t want to argue this case in court at all, waiting until trial came with other difficulties. “I’m sure you know what my dad would say about that.”
He grinned. “Never ask a question that you don’t already know the answer to. Since you don’t know whether he has an alibi, you’re risking building a defense on something that could be blown away with a single answer. That undermines you with the jury. Juries only have so much patience for what looks like a lawyer fishing for information and playing guessing games.”
Was there a handbook of my dad’s philosophies out there that I didn’t know about? Anderson hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he’d studied my dad. He must have read everything he’d ever written and every article ever written about him, as well as studying the cases he’d tried.
Talking to him was a bit like being able to tap into my dad’s experience without all the baggage attached to our relationship.
“I don’t even have proof that Ken and Sandra were having an affair. I have the hunch of a nosy neighbor who didn’t like Sandra and Dean. Dean suspected an affair, but not Ken. He even said something about Sandra caring for him when he was sick, and I didn’t get the impression he thought it was anything more than Sandra being nice. I could make a royal fool of myself if I go in assuming there was an affair happening and it turns out there wasn’t.”
“I got the impression from Ken’s reactions that they were more than friends.”
I had, too. It was nice to have my interpretation confirmed. But that brought me back to how I could prove it. It wasn’t like having Hal continue to dig into Ken would provide me with anything. Affairs often didn’t leave a paper trail. Tailing Ken wouldn’t show us anything, either, since Sandra was gone, and even a trip to the cemetery to leave flowers on her grave could be explained away as the gesture of a neighbor and friend.
I chewed a crouton. “I need someone who knew they had an affair to be willing to testify.”
Not even willing to testify. That still put me back in court before I could follow up on whether Ken might have killed Sandra. I needed something to prove to Ken that I knew about the affair and I wasn’t just guessing.
Anderson wiped his hands on his napkin. “Good luck. If his family or friends knew, they’re not likely to turn on him because you ask nicely.”
My fork sagged in my grip. Ken’s friends or family wouldn’t, but Sandra’s might. Nadine hated Dean, but she hated the person who actually killed Sandra more. If I could convince her there was a reasonable chance Ken could have done it, she might be willing to help me.
I grabbed for my purse. “I have to go. I think I figured out a way to convince Ken to talk.”
I fished enough money from my purse to cover my lunch and a generous tip and dropped the cash on the table.
Instead
of waiting for the server, Anderson did the same. “Do you need me to come with you?”
Having another lawyer to bounce ideas off of had been helpful, but in this situation, I’d have a much better chance of convincing Nadine to talk if I went alone. Besides, I knew she hadn’t killed Sandra, so I wasn’t in any danger. “Not this time, but I might if I can get what I need. I won’t want to be alone in private with Ken.”
As soon as I got into my car, I called Nadine. Her phone went to voicemail. I tried again as I was pulling into the driveway of the garden center. Still no answer.
Even if she wasn’t around, it wasn’t like I’d come all the way from Fair Haven. I’d already been here. I’d have wasted only an extra ten minutes, and I could come back.
The girl at the cash register said Nadine wasn’t working that afternoon, but I could try the house. I backtracked and drove down the fork in the driveway that went to the left instead of to the right. When I’d originally come, I’d followed the signs to the garden center. I hadn’t realized Nadine and her husband also lived on the same land.
No wonder Sandra had been so adamant about wanting to use some of Dean’s money to help them. If they lost the garden center, they wouldn’t only lose their business. They’d lose their home as well.
My car rolled to a stop behind the car sitting in their driveway with the trunk open.
My breath caught in my throat, and for a second, I was back in Eddie’s trunk, fighting to stay conscious and escape before I died of heat stroke. I could smell the air, heavy and hot, and my skin burned.
Along with all the work I’d been doing with my counselor and my PTSD support group, Mrs. Cavanaugh had suggested I start memorizing Bible verses and repeating them when I felt a panic attack coming on. She said it would help focus my mind back on how God was in control and I could trust him regardless of my circumstances.
I’d only memorized Psalm 121 and a passage from Romans so far, but I closed my eyes and recited them over twice, then three times. My heart rate slowly dropped back to normal, and I opened my eyes. I’d decided not long ago that I wouldn’t live my life in fear. I couldn’t give up now over an open trunk.
A tap sounded on my window.
Nadine stood outside. “Are you okay?” The glass of my window muffled her voice.
I nodded and opened my door. She moved back out of my way.
I made sure to close my car door to indicate that I planned to stay. Based on our last visit, I had a suspicion that if she thought she could brush me off by saying we’d make an appointment for later, she would.
After all, she had asked me to call first next time. “I tried to call, but I couldn’t get you on your phone.”
Nadine tilted the cell phone hooked onto the edge of her jeans and glanced at the screen. “My ringer must be off.” She motioned back toward her car. “I just got home. I was out grocery shopping.”
The way she did it, though, so fast she couldn’t actually have read what her phone said, told me she’d recognized my number and hadn’t answered on purpose. She could have answered my calls and told me she was too busy to meet with me today, but she’d chosen to avoid me entirely. If I couldn’t get the answers I needed from her today, there was a good chance I’d never get them.
I slipped past her and headed for her car. “Let me help you carry the rest of your stuff inside.”
I’d never agreed with the old cliché that it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, but in this case, if I didn’t presume that she would invite me in, I guaranteed she wouldn’t.
I snagged two bags, and the handles bit into my hands, more because of where they were from than because they were heavy. Nadine shopped at the same store as Sandra. Her trunk was full of plastic bags that matched the one placed over Sandra’s head.
How could she stand to look at them without thinking about that? I couldn’t even handle seeing an open car trunk without flashing back to past trauma.
My dad would remind me that not everyone reacted to trauma the same way, but I couldn’t shake the creepy crawly feeling running over my skin. If I hadn’t been so sure she had an alibi, I would have suspected her of killing Sandra.
But she did have a solid-steel alibi complete with multiple witnesses and receipts, which meant I was grasping at straws.
Besides, did I really want Nadine to be the one to have killed Sandra? It’d be bad enough if Sandra’s lover had done it, but to be killed by her sister, who she’d clearly adored, would be heartbreaking.
I needed to stay focused on finding someone who could have killed Sandra and would have wanted to.
Nadine came up behind me and took the last remaining bags from the trunk. She slammed it closed and led the way into the house without a word. I followed her around to a side door, and we entered into the kitchen.
She pointed at the table. “Just drop them there while I tell my husband I’m home.”
Tell her husband she’s home was likely code for tell him they had an uninvited guest. That could be innocent as well, though. Her husband might be the type who hung around the house in his boxers when they weren’t expecting company. My dad had never been that kind of man—as casual as he got was khakis and a polo shirt—but I’d had a friend in high school whose dad stripped off his clothes as soon as he got home. I’d been over one day when he hadn’t realized I was there and witnessed it firsthand.
That said, if I could overhear what Nadine planned to say to her husband, it’d help me understand how much of a battle I was about to have to convince her that Dean hadn’t killed Sandra but Ken might have.
I tiptoed to the kitchen door and leaned in close.
“Tell her to leave. You don’t have to talk to her.”
The man seemed to be the kind of person who thought they were whispering even when they weren’t, because Nadine’s response was too soft for me to catch.
“No,” the man said. “We know Dean killed her. All this is going to do is make you upset.”
Nadine must have told him my belief that Dean was innocent. She might have even asked him if he thought they could be wrong.
Either way, he certainly wasn’t wavering in his belief.
Does he protest too much? the suspicious lawyer voice in my head whispered. Nadine has an alibi, but what about her husband?
The thought had barely entered my mind before I tossed it out. I could come up with only two reasons why Nadine’s husband might have murdered Sandra. The first was for money to save their business, but Sandra hadn’t had a life insurance policy, let alone one where Nadine was the beneficiary. The second was if he’d been having an affair with Sandra. While that was possible, it didn’t fit with what I’d seen so far of Sandra and Nadine’s relationship. Sandra was trying to do everything she could to help her sister. To betray her by cheating with her husband would have been like asking a cat to bark.
Besides, Ms. Nosy Neighbor hadn’t mentioned any men coming to the house to see Sandra. She’d only talked about Sandra going next door to visit Ken. While that didn’t mean Sandra and Nadine’s husband couldn’t have had a tryst at Nadine’s house or elsewhere, it made it that much less likely. They’d have had to find a time when Nadine wasn’t home, Nadine’s children weren’t home, and Dean wouldn’t be suspicious. Mark’s favorite phrase of possible but not probable came to mind.
Their conversation ended—or at least I didn’t hear anymore voice noises. I scooted back from the door. The door opened and Nadine came back in a half second after I reached my original spot.
She stopped next to one of the kitchen chairs and rested her hands on the back. She didn’t ask me to sit. “My husband doesn’t want you here. We know Dean did this. Anything we say to you, you’ll only use to try to let him get away with Sandra’s murder.”
Her words sounded firm, but she didn’t technically ask me to leave. The chair in front of her quivered. It was faint, almost not enough to see, but it made me think her hands were shaking. A little muscle twitched in her cheek.
Such small things, but they didn’t say angry to me the way I’d read her the first time we’d met. They almost said fear.
If I eliminated the impossible, ala Sherlock Holmes, where did that leave me?
Nadine had an alibi, so she couldn’t be afraid I’d find out she’d killed Sandra. Aside from that, I’d have expected her to expel me from the house the way her husband wanted if she were guilty. She’d want to protect herself rather than take the risk. The same would be true if she wanted to protect her husband.
She must be afraid Dean hadn’t done it. Our previous conversation had stuck with her.
That sense of uncertainty would be a horrible feeling. She’d been sure before I came around. More horrible than knowing the person who killed your loved one was not knowing who did it at all.
I eased a chair out from the table and lowered into it with the same care I’d use if a deer were in my yard and I didn’t want to spook it. “It’s normal for your husband to be worried, but he hasn’t spoken to me the way you have. You know I want to figure out who killed Sandra because it wasn’t Dean.”
Her hands tightened around the chair. “You don’t know that. He’s not a good man.”
“He’s not a good man. His first wife is my fiancé’s cousin, so I know what he’s like.” It was a slight exaggeration. I hadn’t even known Dean’s name prior to taking on this case, but now I knew more than I ever wanted to. Ignorance might really be bliss in some situations. “But I also know he didn’t do it.”
Her head was shaking. “You can’t know that.”
The way she said it had a desperate edge to it that seemed out of place. Dean was a jerk, no doubt, but he wasn’t enough of a jerk that she should be so insistent on him being the culprit.
And I couldn’t tell her how I knew without violating lawyer–client confidentiality. “I believe Sandra was having an affair and that her lover killed her.”