by Connie Mason
The longer Casey dug into McAllister’s past the more he became convinced that Harry Hopkins was the key to the case. He had too much experience in the field of investigation not to trust his gut feeling about such things. With less than a week before Belle’s trial, he had no idea where to look for the man, or if he was even in San Francisco. The first thing he did was place an ad in the newspaper, requesting one Harry Hopkins to contact him at the address of the late T.J. McAllister, stating that it was a matter of life and death. While he waited for a response, he and Mark each took different streets and made the rounds of cheap inns and boarding houses in the area.
It was during this time that Belle recalled where and when she had encountered Hopkins, and she told Mark when he brought Tommy for his daily visit that she needed to see Casey. Casey arrived at the jailhouse a short time later.
“Mark said you remembered something,” Casey said, staring at her with an intensity that made Belle’s throat go dry.
The reason for Casey’s scrutiny was due to the fact that Belle looked unwell. Her pasty complexion alarmed him. He hadn’t seen her in days and she appeared to have lost weight. His concern turned to fear. Could she have caught something in this pest-ridden place? “What’s wrong? Are you sick? You should have said something. I would have sent a doctor around to look at you.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. Perhaps jail food doesn’t agree with me. I haven’t been able to keep much of it down lately.”
Casey’s concern increased. He had to get Belle out of here before she wasted away. “Mark said you remembered something about Harry Hopkins.”
“After you returned to Arizona I took to lingering outside at the McAllister house, hoping for a glimpse of Tommy. One day I saw Tommy leave the house and get into a carriage with his nurse and his grandfather. I ran beside the carriage, calling Tommy’s name. The carriage didn’t stop and I was hurled to the ground.”
“The bastard,” Casey bit out, smacking the clenched fist of one hand against the open palm of the other.
“A man appeared from nowhere and came to my aid,” Belle continued. “He said his name was Harry Hopkins, and that he used to know my father-in-law.”
“I knew it!” Casey all but shouted. “Did he say where he was staying? Did he mention …”
“He didn’t say anything else,” Belle interrupted. “I thanked him and he left as suddenly as he had appeared. I don’t know where he came from but I got the impression that he was there for a purpose.”
“It’s been a month since T.J. was murdered. If Hopkins knew anything about McAllister’s death he would have come forward. Unless …” Casey grew thoughtful as some of the pieces of his investigation fell into place.
“What do you think it means?” Belle tried not to show her disappointment. After all, what could she expect? Harry Hopkins wasn’t a suspect, merely an acquaintance from McAllister’s past. Casey wasn’t a miracle worker.
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” He didn’t want to give her hope where none existed.
“I don’t expect anything to come of this, I just thought you should know,” Belle said.
Distracted by this small breakthrough, Casey nodded absently. “I have to go, Belle. There is a lot of work to be done yet before your trial.”
He would have liked to kiss her but knew Belle wouldn’t welcome his attention. She’d made it abundantly clear from the moment Tommy had been abducted that she didn’t want him, didn’t trust him, and felt nothing for him. And she looked so ill he feared kissing her would add to her distress. His kisses hadn’t always upset Belle, he recalled. At one time she had enjoyed them.
He turned to leave, feeling sadness and regret at the sorry state of their relationship.
“Casey!”
He stopped and looked back over his shoulder, waiting, hopeful, needing to hear the words he longed for.
“Tommy appears happy with you. No matter what happens between us I’ll always be grateful for that.”
Bitter disappointment made his voice gruff. It wasn’t exactly what he had hoped for. “Not grateful enough to forgive me for something that’s not entirely my fault.” Then he whirled on his heels and left.
Belle wanted to call him back but something stopped her. What was the use anyway? A long prison term was inevitable and her marriage to Casey would soon be even more of a farce than it already was. The terrifying thought of prison life brought a spurt of nausea into her mouth and she reached for the slop bucket again.
The next day Casey found Harry Hopkins. He had taken a room at a rundown boarding house close to the waterfront. Casey had arrived at dinner time and the landlady had pointed Hopkins out as he sat at the table with his fellow boarders. Jubilant over his success, Casey waited until the meal was concluded before asking the landlady to inform Hopkins he had a visitor waiting in the parlor. When Casey finally faced Hopkins, his gut told him he had found his murderer.
It would have helped had Hopkins looked more like a killer, Casey thought. Hopkins was of medium height, too thin to be considered healthy, and had a sickly gray complexion. His shoulders were bent beneath the cheap material of his jacket, and in both posture and looks he appeared to be at least sixty-five years old.
“Who are you?” he asked uncertainly. “I don’t know many people in San Francisco anymore. I’ve been away.”
“Sit down, Mr. Hopkins,” Casey invited. “My name is Casey Walker. I’m a private investigator.”
Hopkins looked startled. “What do you want with me?”
“The answer to a few questions. To begin with, did you know T.J. McAllister?”
Hopkins sank into the nearest chair. “I did at one time.”
“Did you know he’d been murdered?”
“Read it in the papers.”
“And are you aware that a young woman has been charged with the murder?”
“What are you getting at?”
“The young woman isn’t guilty.”
Hopkins wrung his hands nervously. “That’s a shame. But what’s that got to do with me?”
“You were McAllister’s partner once, I thought you might have some insight into the killing.”
“That was a long time ago. We shared ownership of a mine. Arnold Jones was the third partner. That was before McAllister went into the wine business.” His voice turned bitter. “The mine produced enough gold to give him a start in a venture that made him a rich man.”
“What about you, Mr. Hopkins? What did you get out of the mine? I understand you sold your share to McAllister. What happened to Jones’s share?”
Hopkins shrugged. “Jones was killed in a mine accident shortly before I sold out. No one knows how it happened. I got none of the profit from the mine because I sold out before McAllister struck it rich. So did Jones’s widow.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it? Evidently this has been festering inside you a long time. Maybe you were bitter enough to kill him,” Casey suggested.
Hopkins sent Casey a wary look. “Don’t put words in my mouth, mister. I ain’t guilty of nothing. No one can prove I killed McAllister. Besides, you don’t understand.”
“Make me understand.”
It had been a long time since Hopkins had found a sympathetic ear. Since being cheated out of half the profits of the mine, he’d spent the best years of his life prospecting the mountains and dreaming about getting even with McAllister for cheating him out of his due. When he realized he was dying, a condition confirmed by a doctor, he’d come back to San Francisco to die. As for McAllister, Hopkins had stayed up more nights than he could recall planning ways to get even, but he was so sick, so damn tired….
“Our mine wasn’t producing enough to feed one man, let alone three,” Hopkins explained. “But I felt we were on the verge of hitting pay dirt. McAllister disagreed. He wanted to call in experts to evaluate our holding. I agreed, and even paid half the costs for the fancy experts McAllister hired.
“The findings weren’t good. The exp
erts found no evidence of a big vein and expressed grave doubts that the mine would yield anything of great value. I was devastated. I’d put my heart and soul into that mine. When McAllister offered to buy me out, I jumped at the chance to move on to greener pastures. It wasn’t until years later that I learned McAllister struck it rich a month or so after I moved on, and it occurred to me that the bastard paid those experts to give a false report.”
“I don’t blame you for being bitter.”
“The vein was good while it lasted. It played out after a year or two, but it gave McAllister the money he needed to buy land and grow grapes to produce wine, which was becoming a lucrative business in California.” He gave a caustic laugh. “Me? I was left out in the cold. Now I’m old and sick and the money no longer means anything to me.”
“My wife said she encountered you outside the McAllister mansion before T.J’s death. What were you doing there?”
“Was that little lady your wife? McAllister damn near ran her down in the street. I was merely passing by.”
“My wife has been charged with McAllister’s murder. Her trial is in a few days.”
“Too bad,” Hopkins muttered, refusing to meet Casey’s eyes. “What does any of this have to do with me?”
“Plenty, if you’re man enough to admit it. Did you kill T.J. McAllister, Mr. Hopkins? A woman’s life is at stake.”
Hopkins’ denial came swiftly. Casey didn’t believe him. “I didn’t kill McAllister. You got no call to accuse me of murder. I’m sorry for the little lady but I got my own life to live. The doc says I’m dying and I want to live my last days in peace.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hopkins, but that doesn’t change the fact that an innocent woman will be sent to prison if you don’t come clean.” Casey was furious. His gut told him Hopkins was guilty but he had no way of proving it. “Belle has a small son, think how lonely he’ll be without his mother.”
“I’ve said all I’m going to say,” Hopkins declared, retreating before Casey’s fury. “I just want to die in peace.”
“You may die in peace but you’ll go straight to hell.”
Casey’s quiet words shot terror straight to Hopkins’ heart. A cry of denial left his lips as he fled from Casey’s intimidating presence. Casey let him go but he wasn’t through with the man, not by a long shot. He intended to confront Hopkins every day until the trial and appeal to his conscience until he confessed.
The next day Casey discovered just how far Hopkins was willing to go to escape his relentless pursuit. Casey learned that Hopkins had left the boarding house, bag and baggage, in the dead of the night. With only two days remaining before the trial, Casey held virtually no hope of finding him again. Telling Belle her last hope of being freed had fled with Harry Hopkins wasn’t going to be easy. Failure was a difficult pill to swallow.
Belle remained stoic when Casey told her about Harry Hopkins. It wasn’t as if she’d actually believed Casey would find a way to keep her from going to prison. She realized he was just trying to keep her spirits up and really didn’t blame him. Actually, she felt nothing save the churning nausea that seemed to grow worse daily. She sat on the edge of the bunk, listening without really hearing about a man who might possibly have murdered T.J. McAllister.
“Belle, have you heard nothing I’ve said?” Casey asked, trying to pierce through her apathy.
“I heard. Harry Hopkins didn’t look like a killer to me.”
Casey searched her face. “What’s wrong, love, are you ill?”
“I haven’t been able to keep anything in my stomach and I feel wretched.”
His brow creased in concern. “I’ll send a doctor to see you right away.”
“No, don’t bother. There’s no time. The trial is tomorrow. I just want to get it over with. Perhaps whatever is wrong with me is God’s will. Maybe I’m dying.”
“Dammit, Belle, a little nausea never killed anyone. Damn these bars,” he cursed, viciously rattling the bars.
Sheriff Rogan heard the noise and came to investigate. “What’s all the racket about?”
“Unlock the cell door, Sheriff, my wife is ill.”
Rogan peered at Belle through the bars. “She does look a mite peaked but it’s nothing to get upset about.”
“Damn you!” Casey cried, his voice raw with emotion. “What can it hurt to let me comfort my wife?”
“Regulations …”
“The hell with regulations! Are you going to open the cell door, or am I going to have to get a court order?”
“Oh, very well,” Rogan said. It was easier to cave in than deal with the surly detective. He unlocked the door and held out his hand for Casey’s guns. Casey removed his gunbelt and shoved it into Rogan’s face. “Ten minutes, Walker.”
Casey knelt beside Belle, taking her cold hands in his. Then he felt her forehead, finding it cool and clammy. “Where do you hurt?” he asked worriedly.
Belle stared at him with empty eyes. “I … there isn’t any pain. It’s just this infernal nausea and a strange feeling I can’t explain.”
Relief shuddered through Casey. “It’s a normal reaction for a woman in your situation. It’s a wonder you haven’t cracked before now under the strain.”
Belle pulled her hands away. “Please don’t tell me I’m going to be found innocent, because I know better. The only thing I’m concerned about is Tommy’s welfare.”
“I’m surprised you’d trust me with your son.”
Belle glanced down at her hands, then up at Casey. Her expression was pained, her voice low and filled with unbearable anguish. “I have no one else. It’s either you or the orphanage.”
“God!” The word, something between a plea and expletive, exploded from his chest as he shot to his feet. It hurt like hell to know that Belle thought of him on the same level as the Devil. It hurt even worse knowing that he loved her when she cared for him not at all. He was a fool to fall in love in the first place. He’d spent years dodging women with marriage on their mind, and it was ironic that he should fall for a woman who didn’t want him.
“Will you be all right?” Casey asked, changing the subject to something safer than his frayed feelings. “Are you sure you don’t want a doctor?”
“Positive. Could you bring Tommy around tomorrow before the trial? I’d like to see him one last time before … Will you?”
Casey couldn’t help himself. He reached for Belle, bringing her into the circle of his arms. He wanted to kiss her but her head was buried against his chest. “Somewhere there’s a killer out there, Belle, and one day I’ll find him. You have to believe that.”
“I can’t even think right now. My stomach is churning, and the thought of prison is so frightening I’m not sure I’ll be able to bear it.”
“It won’t be for long, I swear it.”
“Why do you care so much? You’re Tommy’s guardian, until he reaches his majority you’re free to spend his money as you see fit.”
Casey’s arms dropped and he stepped away. “My God, you’re right, you’re not thinking clearly. Are you sure you don’t want a doctor? The trial tomorrow is bound to be an ordeal.”
Belle shook her head, so confused where Casey was concerned she no longer knew what to think. She’d all but driven him away and still he continued to work in her behalf. Why couldn’t she throw herself into his arms and let him comfort her for what might be the last time? She would have if she wasn’t so ill. If Casey didn’t leave soon she was going to embarrass herself in front of him. Then Sheriff Rogan came and Casey had to leave.
Casey left reluctantly. He had wanted desperately to comfort Belle but feared rejection. He knew she was under nearly unbearable stress and wasn’t herself, but being spurned time and again was humiliating.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, trying to imbue her with courage. “We’ll all be there, Naomi, Wan Yo, Mark, and I. Don’t count your lawyer out yet. He still has a few tricks up his sleeve.”
“Good-bye, Casey,” Belle whispered, awar
e of the finality of those simple words. It was going to take a miracle to get her out of this, and neither Casey nor Mr. Crowley were magicians.
Chapter 13
Belle spent the remaining hours before the trial vomiting into the slop bucket. She was pale and ill when she walked into the courtroom. She paused in the doorway, grateful to see Naomi sitting in the front row. Neither Mark nor Casey was present, and she couldn’t fault them for choosing not to show up. This was a cut-and-dried case and unlikely to last long enough to warrant her husband’s presence.
The bailiff gave her an ungentle shove and she stumbled forward. Her lame ankle gave way beneath her, and she would have fallen if the bailiff hadn’t grasped her arm and steadied her. She limped to the defendant’s table and sat down beside Crowley. She had conferred with her lawyer often during the last days before the trial, but she’d had nothing to add in her own defense that hadn’t already been said, and Crowley had no new developments to report.
Belle’s gaze strayed to the jury box again and again. Twelve men sat staring at her as if she were some freak in a sideshow. And she saw something else stirring in the depths of those twelve pairs of eyes. She saw her own conviction. Without hearing a single witness, they had tried and convicted her of a violent crime. Some of the men she recognized as friends of T.J. McAllister. Others she had seen at Naomi’s place at one time or another. But all twelve had one thing in common. They thought her guilty of murder.
Belle vaguely recalled standing when the judge entered the courtroom. Kellerman was called to the stand first to testify. His testimony proved extremely damaging. Crowley cross-examined, bringing out the fact that the gun Belle brought into McAllister’s home wasn’t loaded. Then the prosecutor returned and got Kellerman to admit that Belle could have doubled back, retrieved the gun, loaded it and sneaked into the house through the back door, which Kellerman sheepishly admitted having left unlocked.