“Forgive? No, I don’t. I don’t share your sweetness and light view that murderers and rapists and all the rest should be forgiven. They should get justice. That’s what I’m here for. You forgive, but without people like me, you’d get to forgive them again when they commit the next crime. That might be what happened here. There was forgiving all over the place—” Along with a shoddy investigation. “—and now another young woman’s dead.”
She was aware of the silence lengthening to awkwardness. But dammit, she was tired of Jamie trying to push her where she didn’t want to go, wouldn’t go. Maybe couldn’t go.
“I’m sorry, Maggie. Truly, I’m sorry you’re carrying the burden of that. Of all the people in the world… But I was going to say you have to forgive yourself, Maggie. Finally and completely. Most of all you have to forgive yourself for not being able to run the world the way it should run. It’s not all on your shoulders. Not for a murderer killing again up there and not for Aunt Vivian. She’s the last person who’d want you to—”
“I gotta go. Bye, Jamie.”
She replaced the receiver in its stand. It rattled from her hand shaking. She put her hand behind her back.
She took two breaths, then walked out to tell Dallas he had his office back.
He was nowhere in sight. Neither was Carson. His closed office door might account for both.
Scott hurried up with a cup of coffee he pressed into her hand — hands — she used both to hide any remaining tremor.
Concentrating on that, she was ambushed by his gush of words.
“Oh, my God, Jamison Chancellor is your cousin? Jamison Chancellor of the Sunshine Foundation?” Curiosity glittered in his eyes the way it always did when people heard she was related to Saint Jamison … and they realized Jamie’s story, broadcast far and wide. was Maggie’s, too. “Of course she is, what am I saying. I admire her so much. And the work she does with the Sunshine Foundation. Amazing work she — the foundation does.”
“Yeah.”
“Building such good from a personal tragedy — a family tragedy.”
She stiffened.
“I mean the Sunshine Foundation is amazing. I wish I’d had that sort of imagination when Mama died. You know, to do something really special in her memory.” His voice vibrated with emotion. “A commemoration of what she meant to me. I don’t want to pry, but—”
“Thank you,” she got in, overlapping the but that always followed I don’t want to pry. Because that’s what everyone wanted. To pry open her head, her heart — her past. To drag it all out where they could see it and talk about it and demand answers about it. Some indulged in prurient curiosity. They were easy to shut down. Some — the well-intentioned ones like Scott — wanted to offer sympathy or thought they could help. They couldn’t and they were harder to shut down.
“Roy said you’d had it tough,” he added. Roy gossiping with this man? That made the shutting down easier. “I’m sorry I hadn’t made the connection. I want to express my sympathy—”
“Thank you. But this investigation comes before personal matters.”
She softened the shut-down by touching his arm.
As Nancy said, she had to work with people even after she’d slammed the door on them.
“Tell them,” she tipped her head toward the closed door, “I’ll see you all at Rambler Farm.”
“I’d be happy to drive you—”
“No thank you. I’m going alone.”
* * * *
3:28 p.m.
Charlotte looked around one last time.
Perfect.
No one could say otherwise.
Her eyes filled.
“Oh, my dear, I know you’ll miss that lovely, lovely sister of yours.” Janice patted the back of Charlotte’s hand where it rested on the damask upholstery imported from the same English company that supplied fabrics for royal palaces. Janice always came early. “Like a breath of spring she was. Always just so, and that smile. Such an ease about her. Oh, I know you’ll do your best to go on, but it won’t be the same, especially for Sundays at Rambler Farm.”
Charlotte thanked Janice for her words — and she wasn’t lying. She did thank the woman for her words. Not the sympathy, but the reminder that things would not be the same. They would be better.
She straightened her jacket and went to join the judge by the door as more guests arrived.
From now on, there would be no Laurel, there would be only Charlotte at Rambler Farm.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Laurel Blankenship Tagner was memorialized on a day that displayed every mood of spring. The early fog had burned off. The mourners started outside on the sloped lawn behind Rambler Farm’s main house, steaming gently in a preview of sun-scorched summer. Shortly after, they were herded inside, as a front pushed wild clouds, and cold rain lashed down.
Maggie hadn’t packed for a memorial service during her quick stop at her townhouse Monday on her way to Bedhurst. She made do with the slacks and shoes she’d worn from the office, a white blouse, black jacket, and black and white scarf.
The drive alone to Rambler Farm gave her a chance to sort her thoughts.
Roy was on the verge of becoming a real problem. When she got back, she needed to have a come-to-Jesus talk with him. If that didn’t work, she’d go over his head in the department. Not a fun prospect, but she would not let this grow like a nasty mushroom when bright light could stop it in its tracks … Or expose it as truly serious.
Carson getting bent out of shape about the calls and raising alarms with the sheriff pushed her buttons, but not that big a deal in the scheme of things.
As for button pushing… Jamie.
Yeah. That was a major button pushed.
Especially with Jamie — Jamie — acting like she was the mother hen. That had always been Maggie’s role. Born to be the oldest, a responsibility junkie.
Refusing to identify the remembered voice that had said those words, Maggie still disputed the junkie part. Besides, responsibility wasn’t a bad thing. She’d always felt protective of the youngest of their triumvirate of cousins. That’s why she’d picked up on…
No. Wasn’t going there.
Get her head back to where it belonged. Here. Now. Watching and listening. Picking up nuances of the interrelations of the people they’d been talking to. Looking for contradictions.
She gave up her keys to a teenage boy providing valet service at Rambler Farm’s stately entrance, proceeded slowly through the house, not recognizing anyone except a glimpse of Allarene Robinson handing a tray to a waiter, and Teddie Barrett’s mother, small and uncertain, perched on the edge of a chair in a side hall.
Maggie smiled and said hello to her, but continued on, carried by an inexorable tide — no doubt responding to some gravitational requirement ordained by Charlotte — through the sunroom and onto the back lawn.
By a buffet table, she spotted a clot of law enforcement, including Sheriff Gardner. None looked comfortable, but that didn’t stop them from indulging in the offerings.
Carson, Dallas, and Doranna talked not far away. Barry stood separately, staring at the ground. He might as well have a sign on him saying, “I’m in the doghouse.”
The Addingtons were at the core of a group of people exchanging hugs and shoulder-pats. Rick Wade broke away from it and headed for the house. Even from a distance she guessed he hadn’t combed his hair or shaved since they’d talked yesterday, though he had changed to a suit.
He detoured around what amounted to a seated receiving line.
Eugene occupied a chair. The judge, sitting slightly in front of him, appeared to grace a throne. That’s how highbacked and elaborate the carved chair was. Ed Smith stood, a page on the alert to fulfill the king’s wishes.
Or the queen’s, because Maggie saw Charlotte say something to Ed that immediately started him toward the buffet table. Then Charlotte was off in another direction.
Renee Tagner held court of another kind, wearing a dress that lo
oked black until she moved and it glowed the darkest red, and surrounded by what had to be the cream of Bedhurst County’s business class.
“Quite the gathering.”
Maggie found Scott at her elbow, offering her a glass of white wine.
“This is what’s on offer here,” he said. “For the bourbon and whiskey, you need to be invited to the judge’s den.”
“Thanks, this is good.” And it was.
As if expanding her thought about Renee’s group, Scott added, “Drawing dignitaries and leaders from all the surrounding counties, as well as Bedhurst — that’s Henry Zales there saying a word to Eugene.” He was a slender man of barely medium height with straight, pale hair cut to show every bit of elf ears. He wore a bow tie, offset by a seriously square jaw. “None of them strangers to Rambler Farm and its Sunday gatherings. Though it’s the first time coming through the front door for a number of people here.”
Maggie thought of Mrs. Barrett looking awed and uncomfortable and wished she’d stopped longer.
She felt an itch between her shoulder blades. The kind that required a backscratcher, another pair of hands, or flexible arms and no compunction about contorting in public.
Was it the desire to grab Henry Zales, hold him upside down, and shake until whatever he knew about Laurel’s machinations came out?
This wasn’t the place. Not to mention Gardner would have a fit. Plus, the little fact that Dallas was right that he was far more likely to get information out of his crony than she was.
Maddening.
“You appear to be in the appropriate mind-frame,” Scott said with a smile.
She yanked her thoughts from the tunnel they’d been following. “Mind-frame?”
“For a funeral — excuse me, memorial. Do you like funerals? Some people do, you know.” He lowered his voice, as a group passed them, clearly led by a red-head in a silk suit that would have been stunning if it hadn’t been two sizes too small for her otherwise decent figure. “Take Robin over there. She specializes in funerals. Had to. Her sister, Mary Kay, specializes in weddings.”
Maggie felt a twitch pulling her lips, but said only, “This is a lovely setting for either.”
“Oh, yes, Rambler Farm has seen any number of both. Always well done, too.”
“The Sunday gatherings — Laurel would have been expected to be here every week?”
“Expected, yes. She didn’t always attend.”
“But she’d told people she would last Sunday, apparently to announce she was returning to Eugene, that they’d worked out their differences.”
“Mmm.”
It was an interesting sound, agreeing with her while adding a large measure of doubt.
“Which Laurel told some people and Eugene confirms meant he’d agreed to increase the allowance,” she pursued.
“Mmm?” Doubt topped agreement. He smiled. A cat who had swallowed the canary, but now was dying to share it.
“We have multiple sources that Laurel was saying—”
“Oh, I don’t doubt she was saying that. And now Eugene’s saying it, too. But saying and doing aren’t necessarily the same.”
He had all her attention. “You have evidence he didn’t intend to increase her allowance?”
“Evidence of intention is whimsical at best,” he was relishing this. “What I know is what he didn’t do. I’ve worked with people who do work for the firm Tagner uses and no matter what Laurel thought — or told other people — Eugene hadn’t changed her allowance. In fact, he’d called to make sure the pre-nup’s provisions were ironclad.”
“Did you tell Dallas?”
“Not yet. Just found out.”
“His lawyers told you?” They sure as hell shouldn’t have.
“There’s a whole network of information and connections beyond you lawyers. Speaking of which, you’ll have to excuse me while I make the rounds.” He smiled, then drifted to a group of people she didn’t recognize.
If Eugene Tagner lied about changing Laurel’s allowance, that was valuable information. Maybe the pre-nup’s provisions weren’t as ironclad as he’d hoped.
He could have lured Laurel to that isolated spot with the promise of discussing an increase, killed her, and staged the scene to resemble Pan Wade’s murder to throw off suspicion.
But why on earth would Eugene Tagner have murdered Pan? True, compared to the crisscrosses of relationships in this county the nation’s power grid resembled a straight line, but there’d been no evidence of a connection four and a half years ago.
So that would likely mean two murderers.
She realized she was searching the crowd for Dallas and Carson.
Well, that didn’t mean anything special, except her subconscious was ahead of her conscious. If she shared this tidbit with them it didn’t mean anything more than engendering good will. What could it hurt? Scott would tell them anyway.
Carson was farther down the slope, his head bent to hear something Renee — now without entourage — was saying. Dallas was closer, talking to Henry Zales.
Before she moved toward either of them, a wind came up and the sun disappeared like a flipped switch. She looked up to a massive black cloud. Enough sunlight glimmered along the bottom to show slanted lashings of rain trailing it like airborne firefighters dropping a load of water.
“Inside, inside!” The call came from every direction at once.
Allarene appeared, overseeing the temporary help gathering the contents of the buffet table. Charlotte led the charge into the house, directing the flow through the sunroom and deeper inside.
Ed brought in the next wave and the judge gathered the stragglers, all with the air of a practiced sequence. Among all those Sunday gatherings, this must be a familiar scenario.
Not caring about the large, vehement drops splashing onto her head and shoulders, Maggie timed her dawdling to be among the last shepherded in by Judge Blankenship. She was unsurprised to find Dallas and Carson beside her, though Zales and Renee had rushed in earlier.
“Inside, inside,” he urged them, even as all four of them stepped into a screened porch attached to the sunroom.
Dallas slowed, huffing audibly, and taking the judge’s arm. For support or to delay him?
The judge obligingly stopped.
“Glad to have this chance for a word, Kemble,” Dallas said between breaths.
“Are you all right, Dallas?”
“Will be in a second. J.D.?”
Carson picked up immediately, saying to the judge, “We have reason to believe Laurel was receiving crank calls while she was here at Rambler Farm. Did she discuss them with you? Seem upset or—”
“No, no. Laurel would have told me if she’d received upsetting calls. She relied on me.” He showed no sign of remembering their reference to calls. “Not that she wasn’t independent, she was. Can see her as a tot, standing there with her tiny fists on her hips, pointing to Dina and saying why is she always crying and clinging? Sorry, Dallas, but Laurel had Dina dead to rights. She did cry, and good Lord, the woman could cling. I thought Bill Tomlinson might break from it. Surprised he had the backbone to leave.”
“Every family has its eccentrics.”
“That branch of your family grabbed more than its share. Dina’s brother Bruce was eleven apples short of a dozen. And there’s the legend that Dina’s grandmother poisoned her husband. Nobody’d eat her cooking after.”
“Now, Judge, that would never pass for evidence in your courtroom. I recall a speech of yours chastising the fine citizens of this county for — I believe your phrase was — abject failure in applying logic or humanity when they got up all those charges again Anya Nouga when what it came down to was she chose to live in the woods by herself.”
“All right, all right, Dallas. You got the woman off years ago. You can quit trying the case.” To J.D. he said, “Can’t say I ever approved of her, but she did right by you.”
“Yes, sir, she did.”
“Strange woman. Sitting on the bench
, you see all kinds, but can’t say as I’ve seen the like of Anya Nouga before or since. Now, Nola wasn’t such a rare kind. Wish she were. There’d be a lot less unhappiness in this county, and a lot less work for me. Not that she meant anyone harm. Harmed herself — and you — most. Those last years, seemed Nola was before me more days than not. And even then, she meant well, poor soul.”
“It wasn’t her intentions at fault, it was her actions.”
He clapped a large hand on J.D.’s shoulder as he addressed Maggie. “You hear that? Know what this one told me before he headed off for the Army?”
She didn’t respond. He didn’t need a response. He was clearly a man accustomed to dominating the conversation, if not everything around him. Maggie suspected all around him were deferring to him even more than usual, hoping whatever course he chose led away from the grief drawing his face into sagging folds.
“He told me one of his early memories—”
“Judge—”
He shook his head, not looking at Carson but with his hand still on his shoulder. “I’m going to tell Ms. Frye this. J.D. here said one of his earliest memories was listening to a judge hold his mother accountable for her transgressions. In his young life he hadn’t seen that. When she made excuses there in court, this judge cut her off, saying actions speak louder than words.
“I’m proud to say I was that judge, young lady. And I’m even prouder to say this young man has lived by that standard — the words I spoke in court to his mother. Actions speak louder than words. His actions show him as a fine young man. Becoming a top-notch lawyer, too.”
Maggie had recognized on their first trip to Rambler Farm that Judge Blankenship didn’t suspect Carson of murdering Laurel. But this encomium caught her off balance.
“I didn’t realize you were close.”
“Don’t get that lawyer twist to your mouth, young lady. There was no partiality from the bench. In fact, I’d say the fact you didn’t know I’d had an interest in young J.D. is proof I didn’t favor him one whit at trial. You’d have spotted it fast enough.”
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