Verdict Suspended

by Nielsen, Helen

  “Which would explain her statement that she was tired of ‘bailing him out of trouble’?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Was it ever serious trouble?”

  Trench was thoughtful. “No. Traffic violations—drunk charges. Girls when he was younger.”

  “When he was younger?”

  “And less experienced.”

  “But never a girl he wanted to marry?”

  “I don’t believe there ever was such a girl,” Trench answered.

  Steve Quentin nodded. “Now, Mr. Trench, getting back to the night of the murder, I want you to be more specific in your testimony. Can you tell us at what time you heard Jaime Dodson and his sister quarreling in the living room?”

  Trench relaxed. He was almost cheerful. “At seven I heard Mr. Dodson arrive,” he recalled. “I remember looking at the clock and being grateful that it was only Jaime and not the others. I was behind schedule, you see. Then I brought in the martinis…. I would say the argument started at about seven-fifteen.”

  “When you were preparing to leave the house and go into town for more ice?”

  “Yes,” Trench said.

  “Which you did after hearing the words: ‘Jaime, don’t be a fool!’ and the sound of a crash?”

  “Yes,” Trench said. “Immediately after.”

  “So that at some time between seven-fifteen and seven-twenty, Mr. Trench, you left Sheilah Dodson’s house through the back door, without having returned to the living room, and didn’t re-enter the house until—when?”

  Trench was now less relaxed. His fingers combed restlessly on the brim of the homburg. “After the guests arrived,” he admitted. “I was delayed in the village—one of those traffic things that always happen when the pressure’s on. A truck overturned.”

  “At the corner of Cypress and Pacific,” Steve agreed, “at exactly seven thirty-five, according to the police report. How long did that delay your return to the house?”

  Impatience made Trench’s voice an octave higher. “I told you—after the guests arrived. After Miss Muldoon discovered Miss Dodson’s body.”

  “And after Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd found Miss Muldoon in the driveway?”

  “Yes.”

  “And after the fifth guest arrived? You did say there were to be five guests, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Trench admitted. “You were the fifth guest, Mr. Quentin. Don’t you remember? Your car passed my station wagon on the approach to the house.”

  “I remember,” Steve said. “But do you remember what time it was?”

  “Yes, sir. I looked at my watch when I pulled into the garage. It was eight-fifteen.”

  “Which means the Dodson house was open and unattended for almost an hour.”

  Trench was surprised. “But Mr. Dodson was in the house!” he protested.

  “We don’t know that,” Steve answered. “What’s more important, Jaime Dodson himself doesn’t know it. He doesn’t know where he was during that period. But we do know that he was in the living room with his sister at seven-fifteen, and was seen fleeing the house shortly before eight. Now, Mr. Trench, when you returned from your errand, what did you find?”

  “Chaos,” Trench said. “Miss Dodson was in the living room—dead. Her head had been bashed in with a poker.”

  “Did you notice anything else about the room?”

  “No … yes. Broken glass on the hearth. The glass I’d given Mr. Dodson.”

  Steve looked skeptical. “You recognized a broken glass?”

  “Of course. I served only two drinks. Two martinis. Miss Dodson’s glass was on the bar—empty.”

  “Was there any sign of struggle? Anything broken?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “With a bar nearby? Was it set out for guests?”

  “Yes,” Trench admitted. “I put glasses and liquor and mix. But I mixed the martinis in the kitchen.”

  “I understand that,” Steve said impatiently. “The point I’m trying to make is that nothing else was broken—no furniture overturned, no indication of struggle except the dead woman and the poker. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Trench, that it was a rather quiet quarrel that went on for forty-five minutes without anything being disarranged?”

  Ryan was on his feet with immediate objection, but Steve had found his opening. He didn’t stop until it swung into a wide doorway. Evidence was introduced that a series of robberies had taken place on the Point during the summer—a few with signs of violence. Trench admitted he’d left the rear door open when he went for ice.

  “Miss Dodson was expecting guests,” Steve added. “What was her custom concerning the front door at such a time?”

  Trench hesitated. “Why, you know, Mr. Quentin. All of her guests know. She always had the front door left unlocked so the guests could let themselves in when they arrived. ‘They were invited; they know they’re expected,’ she used to say. ‘They don’t need a fanfare.’”

  “Which means that the Dodson house was open—front door and rear door—from the time you left the house. Anyone—any prowler or intended burglar—could have entered.”

  Ryan leaped to his feet. “Mr. Quentin,” he protested, “I must admit that you’re weaving an interesting adventure story, but I do hope the jury will realize it’s pure conjecture.”

  “Exactly,” Steve agreed. “Pure conjecture—like Trench’s charge against Jaime Dodson. We have heard testimony in this hearing that Jaime sometimes had differences with his sister. He was a hotheaded young man—impulsive and outspoken. But we have heard no testimony to indicate those quarrels were of a violent or threatening nature. No witness has indicated that he—or she—entertained any thoughts of Jaime as a murderer. One witness, his fiancée, has stated under oath that she still loves and trusts him enough to become his wife…. Only one witness suggests that Jaime might be guilty.”

  Steve turned back to Trench. “Mr. Trench,” he said, “you testified to hearing a bitter quarrel between Jaime Dodson and the deceased prior to leaving the house. You heard the deceased cry out: ‘Jaime, don’t be a fool!’ You heard the sound of breaking glass—a body falling. Very provocative sounds, Mr. Trench. You testified further that you regretted not having returned to the living room because you might have saved Miss Dodson’s life.” Steve paused pointedly. “Why didn’t you, Mr. Trench?”

  It was late afternoon. Trench had been under interrogation a long time. The abruptness of the challenge confused him.

  “Why?” he repeated vaguely.

  “It was a natural thing to do, wasn’t it? You were fond of your employer. You were afraid for her life.”

  “But I wasn’t! That was afterward—after I knew she was dead! I wasn’t afraid at the time.”

  “You weren’t? Not when you heard glass breaking and a body falling?”

  Albert Trench was human. The implication of cowardice offended his ego. He fought back. “It wasn’t like that! Not sinister like that! It was as if a glass slipped from someone’s hand and a—well, maybe it was a chair being moved.”

  “Not a body falling?”

  Trench clenched the narrow brim of the homburg with both hands. “I don’t know!” he cried.

  The admission came with bitterness. Albert Trench left the witness stand a sullen man, humiliated and resentful. That wasn’t important. What was important was that the jury retained a doubt long enough to darken noonday. All of the evidence against Jaime Dodson was circumstantial; the evidence for him was the unswerving love of a woman. Steve Quentin had gambled and won. The coroner’s jury deliberated on the accumulated evidence and delivered its verdict: “death at the hands of a person or persons unknown.”

  With a sharp cry of joy, Greta ran to Jaime. He rose to meet her and held her close to him in a moment of silence that obliterated the courtroom and all of the curious, staring faces. A small island rose from the sea of confusion; on it were Greta and Jaime and Steve.

  “Oh, Steve,” she said, “thank you!” Nobody answered eyes so brimming
with happiness. No answer was expected. “We want you to be our best man,” she said. “Come along.”

  She was tugging at his sleeve. Steve looked at her in amazement.

  “Now?” he asked.

  “Of course now! I want to marry Jaime now!”

  She was serious. The population of the island increased to include Tilde and Cy Shepherd, who seemed to know all about the idea and were in favor of it. “I think it’s great!” Cy said. “My plane’s down on the field all tuned up and ready to go. I can fly the five of us to Vegas within the hour.”

  They were all serious—that was the incredible thing to Steve. He stalled for time. “Why not tomorrow?” he suggested. “Give everybody a chance to calm down.”

  “No!” Greta insisted. “Now! Steve, you’ve been so wonderful. Don’t let me down now.” She lowered her voice and drew him aside. “I know Jaime,” she said. “With the trial over, he’ll let down. He’ll get drunk or run away. He’ll do anything to try to erase the memory of this. And he can’t. He has to live with it.”

  “Greta,” Steve protested, “you don’t understand. There’s more to this than you know.”

  “Much more,” she agreed. “And I intend to find out all of it—with Jaime. If there are any ghosts, I’ll lay them.”

  She was so young and determined. Frightened, but confident too. Steve could do nothing. Everything moved too fast. He was like a sleepwalker when Cy hurried Greta and Jaime away. “Meet you at the airport in an hour,” he called back over his shoulder. “One hour, Steve. Do you hear?”

  The island dissolved. The courtroom was empty now except for the man who waited for Steve near the doorway. Dr. Curry’s eyes had followed the excitement at the front of the room; now they awaited explanation.

  “They’re going to be married,” Steve said. “I can’t stop them.”

  “What did you expect?” Dr. Curry asked.

  “Expect? I expected nothing. I had a job to do. I saved Jaime’s life…. But what will happen, Doctor, if he remembers that confession? Is it possible? Can he remember?”

  “With the mind anything is possible,” Curry said.

  “Then what will happen? If Jaime Dodson awakens one morning with the knowledge that he killed his sister, what will happen to him? What will happen to Greta?”

  Steve hadn’t lied. Until now there had been only the inquest to think of—one aim, one goal. Now the inquest was over; but it wasn’t over. It was beginning. He faced Curry, a desperately anxious man waiting for a reassurance that couldn’t be given.

  “I don’t know,” Curry admitted gravely, “but for the sake of that lovely young woman, I hope he never remembers.”

  Chapter 4

  Greta and Jaime were married in a simple civil ceremony. Following the marriage, Cy flew Steve and Tilde back to Cypress Point. A week later the newlyweds returned in a convertible Jaime had picked up on a used-car lot in Vegas. They came to Steve’s house in response to his request. Steve looked at Greta first; she was radiantly happy with no indication of ghosts stalking the marital chambers.

  “You look wonderful,” Steve admitted. “Jaime, I’m jealous.”

  “Good!” Jaime said. “This is the first time in my life I’ve had anything anyone envied. I’m proud.”

  “And I’m confused,” Greta protested. “Should I be flattered by all this, or should I resent being classified as a possession?”

  “An obsession,” Jaime corrected. “A magnetic obsession—”

  Greta’s laughter broke up the tournament of compliments. They were home again, and it was time to start living.

  “You have the keys to Sheilah’s house, Steve,” she said. “It’s Jaime’s house now—and mine. We’d like to go home.”

  Steve’s smile faded. “But you can’t,” he said. “I’ve fixed up the cottage—”

  “Your cottage?” Jaime asked.

  “My guest cottage. It’s out on the point. It’s private. I promise to stay away.”

  “But we want to open the house,” Greta protested.

  “It’s Sheilah’s house,” Steve explained, “and until her estate is settled the executor is in charge. I happen to be that executor. I’ve had the house locked since the night Sheilah died.”

  “It’s not haunted,” Greta insisted.

  She was so young and clear-eyed; so determined to make nothing of all Jaime had been through. Steve studied her thoughtfully. The house wasn’t that important. She was a little too determined.

  “In a sense, it is,” he said. “‘You’re not aware of this, Greta, because you were too concerned with Jaime and the inquest, but I had to have the premises fenced and a gate with a lock installed at the driveway within two days after Sheilah’s death. A woman was murdered in that house. Her murder hasn’t been solved. Traffic had a way of detouring off the highway so every curiosity seeker and amateur sleuth in the area could feast their morbid minds. Even now, the sheriff provides a special patrol. I don’t know how you feel, but that’s just not my idea of a honeymoon house.”

  Jaime was restless. His boyish enthusiasm faded to quick gloom. “So that’s what we’ve come back to,” he said.

  Steve turned quickly to Jaime. “What did you expect? Your sister was an illustrious woman—a remarkable woman. It’s not likely she’ll be forgotten overnight—not in Cypress Point.” And then, because the moment was getting grim, Steve broke the mood with a smile. “We don’t have to make an issue of it,” he said. “Naturally, if you don’t want the cottage—”

  “Of course we do,” Greta said. “I was being thoughtless, as usual. Steve, you’re a darling.”

  “That,” Steve remarked wryly, “is the standard observation the bride of the friend gives to the loser. Jaime, get the bags out of the car.”

  The cottage was on the point, a good two hundred yards from Steve’s house and completely screened by foliage. It consisted of four spacious rooms and a deck on the oceanside. Wood was laid on the hearth, and fresh flowers formed a centerpiece on the dinette table.

  Jaime took the bags into the bedroom. Greta had opened the windows overlooking the bay. It was a bright day—clear vision, a whole, wide horizon to scan; but their eyes turned naturally toward Sheilah’s house where it rested high in the rocks on another point a mile up the shore.

  “It doesn’t look haunted,” Greta said.

  Jaime came closer and kissed the back of her neck. “Don’t talk nonsense,” he said. “Steve briefed me getting the bags out of the car. He has to take inventory, or some such dull thing.” Jaime’s arms slid about her waist. “Mrs. Dodson,” he said, “you’re wearing a most seductive perfume. Is that fair so early in the day?”

  She turned to him, smiling. “What does time have to do with it?” she said.

  “Mrs. Dodson,” Jaime said sternly, “let me remind you—you’re talking to a married man.”

  The door leading to the living room was open. Now came sounds of guests arriving. “Where are they?” Cy shouted. “Where are they hiding?” He reached the bedroom door as Greta pulled free from Jaime’s arms. “Look, kids,” he said brightly, “I know how it is. I was a bridegroom once myself. But you’re supposed to break for lunch…. Tilde!”

  Tilde, half hidden under a huge yellow straw hat, appeared briefly at Cy’s side. “I brought a lunch basket,” she said, “cold chicken, little sandwiches, and salad. Steve’s setting that table on the patio. Come, now. Come … come.” Tilde beckoned like an impatient teacher at a Sunday school picnic.

  Jaime grinned at Greta. “The reception committee’s provided for everything,” he said. “Maybe Steve’s got some wine—”

  “Better than that,” Cy said. “Steve’s got Trench. “Steve—” They moved across the living room and on through open sliding glass doors to the patio. Steve was smoothing one of Tilde’s little checkered picnic cloths over a round metal table. He looked up at the sound of his name. “—let’s welcome Jaime home with a round of the master’s martinis,” Cy finished. He paused and looked about, sur
prised. “Where is Trench?”

  Steve didn’t answer. He stepped back inside the living room. A small portable bar stood near the doors. He opened it and brought out a bottle of scotch. “What’s wrong with this?” he asked. “And here’s some soda.”

  “Steve, have a heart,” Cy begged. “Jaime’s been away a whole week! He needs stimulation!”

  Jaime laughed. “I don’t need stimulation, but I could use a drink. What’s Trench doing here, Steve?”

  Steve was making himself very busy with bottles and glasses. “Tilde,” he said, “be a sweetheart and see if there’s any ice in the kitchen.” He turned to Jaime. “There was nothing for him to do at Sheilah’s house,” he said. “I took him on until he could find another place.”

  “But he can’t do that!” Greta protested. “We need him, don’t we, Jaime?”

  She looked up at Jaime, expecting enthusiastic agreement, but he’d sensed something in Steve’s manner that was sobering. “What’s the matter, Steve?” he asked. “Did Trench quit?”

  “Yes,” Steve said.

  “Why?”

  Steve had a scotch in each hand when Tilde returned with the information that nobody had turned on the refrigerator in the kitchen and so there was no ice. “That won’t bother me,” Steve said, “I always drink my scotch without ice…. Cy?” Cy, scowling, took the drink. “Jaime—”

  Jaime’s hands stayed at his sides. “Why did Trench quit?” he repeated.

  Steve took a long drag on his drink before answering. “Jaime,” he said, “what does it matter? The days of serfdom are over. Trench is a free man.”

  “He liked his job.”

  “Well, he doesn’t any more. Maybe he didn’t like the traffic increase.”

  “Then why isn’t he here—serving?”

  Steve drained his glass. Jaime was still waiting for an answer. Steve shrugged. “He’s up in the house. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  “Jaime,” Greta said, “wait.”