Herb removed a stack of papers from a wheeled office chair upholstered in ‘70s goldenrod faux leather and gestured for me to sit. The seat whooshed air as I sank onto it. Herb took the chair behind the desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a legal-sized manila envelope.
“Harriet and I had our wills updated. We’ve always been named executors for each other, but if we’re not able to do it for each other, we named you.” Herb smoothed the envelope flap with a calloused thumb. “In the end, when we’re both gone, it’ll be you. Probably should have asked you first. Is that okay?”
“Yes, of course.” I’d been sort of expecting it. Last winter, Harriet had been sick for a while — nothing serious — but at the time Herb had admitted they were finding it harder to keep up with the campground. They weren’t the type of people to retire and moving into a care facility would probably kill them. I didn’t want to think about it, but I’d likely be the one to find them when their bodies wore out.
As far as I knew, the twins were the end of the Tinsley line. Naming me alternate executor of their wills confirmed it.
“I haven’t been an executor before, but I’ll do my best. Is there anything you want me to know, any particular instructions?” I said. My stepfather is a lawyer, and I’d been engaged to a lawyer once, so legal stuff doesn’t intimidate me. Tedious and time consuming, but not hard.
“We wrote it out. It’s not much.” Herb tapped the envelope on the edge of the desk and returned it to the drawer. “So you know the copies are in here. Deuce Hollis is our lawyer, in town. He has the originals.”
I suppressed the urge to giggle. I’ve not met Deuce Hollis yet, but I’ve seen his name in peeling gold letters on a smudgy storefront window on Main Street. I’ve always thought Platts Landing’s only practicing attorney sounded more like a professional poker player than a lawyer. Deuce never seems to actually be in his office. I’ve heard he prefers fishing to billing hours.
“How’re you holding up?” I asked.
“Alright.” Herb exhaled and rested his elbows on the desk. “Seems strange, but shooting the cougar took more out of me than I expected. I didn’t like doing that.”
“There were kids playing a few yards away. You had to.” My stomach bunched in a tight knot, but I had to ask. “Did you and Harriet draft living wills as well?”
“They’re included. No life support for either of us.”
I bit my lip. While I was pretty sure I’d choose the same for myself, I didn’t like the idea of being the one to sign the papers. But I’d do it for the Tinsleys — whatever they wanted.
“There you are.” Harriet stuck her head into the room. “Oh good.” She shared a knowing look with her brother. “Settled?”
Herb gave a curt nod.
oOo
The mattress on the antique four poster bed in the Tinsleys’ spare room squeaked. As soon as I laid down, I knew I was going to have a hard time sleeping. Rather than advertising that fact through a symphony of squeaks and groans, I got up and sat in the quieter old rocking chair.
I tucked one foot under me and pushed with the other, setting the comforting rhythmic motion going. Moonlight streamed in through the eyelet curtains. The rectangle it cast stretched thin and angled long as I watched it creep across the floor.
I prayed for Pete, hoping he was sleeping better than I was. My thoughts tumbled over the events of the past several days — danger, love and loss all tangled together.
The Tinsley siblings had spent a lifetime taking care of each other. I knew Harriet’s fiancé had jilted her. I guessed there weren’t any other suitors after that. He was the only one she ever talked about — in a past-tense, good-riddance sort of way — much the same way I felt about my ex-fiancé.
Harriet had never mentioned if Herb had had his eye on a potential wife. Maybe he’d had trouble getting over his natural reticence and speaking the words necessary to woo a woman. He’d only recently started stringing together two or more sentences when talking with me, and I’d been their tenant for over two years. The twins seemed content, but they were awfully alone.
I replayed Pete’s firm touch, warmth, even his scent as he kissed me. Flutters aside — as if I could ignore those — he felt good, really good. I wanted to go back to being in his arms and just stay there. Stay safe with him until the trial, the assassination attempts, the chemical weapons were over, gone, obliterated. Of course, they might take us with them. I had a horrible feeling we hadn’t seen the worst of it all yet.
And that’s how I spent the rest of the night — rehashing the worst case scenarios I’d concocted the night before.
CHAPTER 18
Muted ringing wormed its way into my consciousness. I scrunched my eyelids open — they felt like sandpaper — and blinked the blurriness away. Sunshine filled the room.
I was still wedged in the rocking chair. Sharp pings zapped my legs as I unfolded them. “Ooof.” I staggered toward my purse, but the ringing stopped.
Tuppence lifted her head, sneezed, then settled in to resume her nap on the rug beside the bed.
The phone rang again. I squinted at the clock — 8:30.
Good grief. My heart started racing with that panicky feeling. I’d overslept — big time. I found the phone.
“Meredith? Judge Lumpkin’s moving through the motions fast. How soon can you get here?” Otto asked.
I glanced at the clock again. “I thought starting time was 9:00.”
“He wants to get the trial to the jury quickly. We’re trying to avoid having deliberations go through the coming weekend because sequestering is a possibility.”
“I understand. Um, forty-five minutes?”
“Hurry.” Otto hung up.
Tuppence clambered to her feet and shook vigorously, nose to tail, jowls and ears flapping, until every hair was in its proper place. I wished I could make myself presentable that easily.
Bacon and cinnamon smells wafted up through the cold air return grate. I grabbed a white t-shirt, khaki skirt and my toiletry bag, poked my head into the hallway to ascertain it was empty, then darted to the bathroom.
oOo
The good thing about being late — red light running, white-knuckled driving late — is that it takes all your attention, and you forget to worry about what happens when you get there.
I’d bolted a few bites of Harriet’s thoughtful breakfast. It was probably amazingly delicious, but I didn’t notice. And then I’d hit the road, tires squealing.
Once I was in the jail’s elevator lurching upward toward the courtroom, my mind returned to the matter at hand, and my stomach rebelled. I hoped, for a moment, that Pete would be there, but I knew he had to stand guard on the Surely.
I took a deep breath. Just a repeat — with clarification — of subjects we’d already covered, Otto had promised. In — out. In — out. I could do this.
Judge Lumpkin arched an eyebrow as I snuck through the side door and slid into my designated pew. The attorneys were huddled in front of his bench, flipping through reams of paper and muttering between themselves. Otto looked flushed, his frizzy gray hair in more disarray than normal, as though he’d used a balloon’s static electricity to style it.
The jury box was empty, but the rest of the courtroom was just as packed as the first day. I wondered what the audience was expecting. I hated being the one to provide their entertainment and fuel their gossip.
The lawyerly confab broke up, Archie and Owen herded Fulmer to his seat behind the defendant’s table, and the bailiff funneled the jury into their pen. They had the look of wary cattle knowing something unpleasant was coming.
And it was, indeed, unpleasant — for me at least.
Otto patted my arm — a gesture of commiseration, I think — while he held the gate open, and I returned to the witness stand.
Slade Alden smirked and asked me to recount the events surrounding finding my ex-fiancé’s body. Then we went, line by line, over all the texts my ex-fiancé had sent me and I’d replied to. Texts aren�
�t great for context, and Alden seemed to enjoy insinuating underlying meanings in the pleading, on my ex-fiancé’s part, and indifference to downright rudeness, on my part. He suggested I was playing hard to get, luring my ex-fiancé to his demise.
I stared at the flat-faced clock on the back wall and answered in monotones, clenching every muscle not to let my anger show. I refused to fidget in front of Alden, no matter what he hinted at and how much sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. I was grateful Pete wasn’t there to hear the slam on my character firsthand.
One revolution of the second hand, then another, and another. That’s how I got through the morning.
Judge Lumpkin announced a lunch recess, and I escaped to the same narrow hallway I’d occupied before. I was hanging out the window gulping air when Archie ambled up with a couple paper-wrapped sandwiches.
“I can’t, Archie. Not today. But thanks.”
“You need sustenance.”
“I need to not throw up.”
Archie blinked. “You have the flu?”
“Nerves. Stress.”
The look on Archie’s face indicated he had no idea what I was talking about. Apparently he and Tuppence fall in that same blessed category — food trumps all worries. I shook my head weakly.
Archie shrugged, unwrapped a sandwich and started chewing, noisily.
I did an about-face and hung out the window again, trying no to think about the sounds of masticating behind me.
“Archie. Give us a few minutes.” Sheriff Marge’s voice echoed in the small space.
Archie’s clomping footfalls retreated, then Sheriff Marge said, “How’re you holding up?”
I turned to face her serious gray eyes.
“Ahh. Never mind. You need to put your head between your knees?”
I clung to the windowsill and shook my head. I’d been fine — relatively fine — until people started asking, letting me know I looked as bad as I felt.
Sheriff Marge wedged into the opening with me and peered out. “You’re doing good. The jury understands it’s not easy for you. We all know that.”
“Alden’s suggesting I had something to do with—” I couldn’t even say it.
“It’s his job to try to pin the guilt on someone other than his client, to create doubt. But the case will be decided on evidence, and there’s none to implicate you.”
“But people will still think—”
Sheriff Marge gripped my shoulders and pulled me around to face her. “Nope. The people around here know you, know your reputation. They won’t be deceived by an outsider’s speculation because they know the truth.”
I sniffed.
“Keep it together,” Sheriff Marge said, her voice stern. “Finish well.”
I nodded and watched her sturdy stride down the hall. Keep it together. That’s what Sheriff Marge does every day. Keep it together.
oOo
My afternoon session on the witness stand was easier — maybe it was Sheriff Marge’s pep talk, maybe it was the less insulting nature of Alden’s questions. We settled into the realm of formalities — questions with yes and no answers, repetition of details already clearly etched in everyone’s minds.
Fulmer scrutinized me with those dark hollow eyes, his face impassive. Aside from the outburst when Anita had been on the stand, he’d seemed lifeless, inert in every way except his eyes. If eyes really are the window to the soul, then he was in a scary place, and I was glad for the distance between us and his leg shackles.
I wondered if he valued his own life as little as he had my ex-fiancé’s. If facing the death penalty didn’t faze him, what would?
Abruptly, Alden announced he was finished with the cross-examination. I flinched. After the barrage for hours and hours, all my adrenaline and tension sagged away. I felt a sort of abandonment, my limbs limp.
I slipped out of the chair and walked toward my pew with unsteady steps.
“Well done,” Otto murmured as I passed him.
Judge Lumpkin called another short recess, then the lawyers gave their closing arguments. There was nothing new. They each summed up the evidence in the most favorable light for their side.
Alden spent a lot of time on degrees of doubt, almost patronizing in baby talk terms to paint the legal definition to Fulmer’s benefit. I couldn’t tell if the jury was sympathetic or not. Mostly they were tired — paying attention but not expressing any emotion. They had painful deliberation in a stuffy coffin-sized jury room to look forward to.
Judge Lumpkin kept eyeing the clock, but he let Alden pontificate. Finally, near 5:30, Alden surrendered the floor. Otto, in typical fashion, wrapped up the prosecution’s rebuttal succinctly. Judge Lumpkin gave the jury their instructions and two questions they had to answer — did Fulmer kill Hamilton Wexler, and if so, did Fulmer deserve to die because of his actions?
As the bailiff ushered the jury out, the audience sat in hushed stillness. It was as though the magnitude of the jury’s responsibility settled on everyone.
I felt a little surge of elation, though. For me, it was over — really over. I scooted along the pew and ducked through the side door.
In the hall, I leaned against the wall and turned my phone on. I smiled — three texts from Pete. I dialed his number.
“Babe? How are you?”
“Good — done,” I sighed.
“It’s late. I was worried.”
“Otto told me Judge Lumpkin was pushing to get the trial to the jury, hoping they could reach a verdict before the weekend.”
“How are you?” Pete asked again.
“Relieved mostly. Although Alden came up with a lot of smutty things to say about me.”
Pete was breathing hard into the phone. “Good thing I’m not there, I guess, or there’d be a fight in the parking lot about now.” He sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “Sheriff Marge said the same thing — well, more judiciously — that it was part of Alden’s job to suggest alternatives.”
“Huh. She called me too — gave me updates since you couldn’t.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled. How many times had I been the recipient of Sheriff Marge’s kindness — tough and straight-shooting as well as thoughtful and practical. When I grow up, I want to be like her.
“Did she tell you how George is?” I asked.
“Should be released from the hospital in a day or two. Guess he’s giving Gemma a hard time about taking it easy.”
I laughed. “Sounds like the George we know. That is so good to hear.”
“You know what he’s going to do when he gets out.”
“Yeah,” I replied, suddenly sober. “Not by himself.”
“Does he work any other way?”
I didn’t like the idea of George tracking and confronting the weapons traffickers. Even their respective boats showed the lopsidedness of the odds — George in his dinghy and the bad guys in their souped-up speedboat.
“Did you read my texts?” Pete broke into my thoughts.
“Not yet.”
“You’re officially invited to dinner.”
I grinned. “I’ll bring ice cream. How’s the engine?”
“Purrs like a kitten.”
Yeah, a ravenous, ten-ton, saber-toothed tiger kitten. I lowered my voice and glanced down the empty hall. “Any more bombs?”
“Nope. I called my crew. They’ll be here tomorrow. The more people around, the safer we’ll be.”
CHAPTER 19
My pickup skidded to a stop in Junction General’s gravel parking lot. Metal bells clanked against the glass door as I pushed through. I was in a hurry for chocolate, sweet cream and a little salt.
I was aiming for the freezers but pivoted when I spotted a new set of back pocket bling leaning against the cashier counter. Where did Frankie get these snazzy jeans all of a sudden? If they’d been languishing in her closet, unused for the past few months, then I needed to give her a friendly lecture.
Fran
kie and Gloria were huddled over something, heads together, talking in hushed tones. I sidled up and peered over Frankie’s shoulder.
She was scrolling through pictures of farm animals on her phone. Only a city girl takes twenty pictures of the same calf — and a pig, a border collie, a rooster.
I shuddered. I hold a serious grudge toward chickens in general and roosters in particular due to a run-in with the neighbor’s brood when I was in elementary school. I am never volunteering to feed chickens — not even suburban chickens in a cute coop — again in my entire life. I eat chickens and get my revenge that way. I would rather face another cougar than a rooster.
My shiver of repulsion must have startled Frankie. She whirled around with a hand over her chunky necklace in the vicinity of her heart. “Oh!”
“Did you have a good time?” I asked.
Frankie’s face spread in the giddiest, gushiest smile I’ve ever seen from her.
“Did she ever. So much that she’s accepted a second date request — tonight.” Gloria rolled her dark brown eyes at me over the top of Frankie’s head, and I knew we were thinking the same thing — Frankie was going to fall for the first male interest since her divorce far too fast. She needed some variety in her life, a little competition to slow things down.
I squinted and nodded to Gloria, and she nodded back, silently making a pact to introduce Frankie to a few more eligible men. Not that Zane’s not a great guy — Mac and the Tinsleys were familiar with him — it’s just that I don’t know him. I’d feel better if I’d had a chance to preapprove Frankie’s options. She’s still so new to the area and the way of life out here in the boonies.
“I heard the trial’s gone to the jury,” Gloria said. “I also heard — well, never mind. That defense lawyer is a skunk.” She patted my hand. “You alright?”
“I will be after I get some ice cream.”
Gloria flashed a brilliant white smile. “The Breyers truck just left. Lots of choices back there.” She waved toward the freezer cases.
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