Proof of Innocence

by Patricia McLinn

  She locked the door and grabbed the bag to take it to the main house. No way was she giving J.D. Carson the opportunity for a told-you-so.

  A few steps into the rhododendrons and it was tunnel dark. But she knew the path to Monroe House’s back door.

  Damp leathery touches against her face were rhododendron leaves. She remembered the sensation from the climb to the overlook behind J.D. at the crime scene. What had he been looking for? She’d never asked, he’d never said.

  That might have been short-sighted. Truth or lie, an answer could provide—

  A sound behind her.

  Raccoons following the scent? Wasn’t that extreme, even for the pushy behavior Carson and Evelyn described.

  And this wasn’t the same sound as the scratching in the bushes by the back door. It was more furtive. Yet … bigger. Something pushing at the leaves about shoulder height at the same time creating a faint footfall.

  Footfalls closing in on her.

  She went faster. If she ran, could she beat her follower to the back door?

  Not if it was Roy.

  Roy who wouldn’t be above trying to frighten someone in the name of “fun.”

  She’d reached where one side of the path opened to the oval of lawn, but the deep shadows left it no brighter. She picked up speed.

  Behind her, she heard her follower break into a run. Toward her. Coming right at her.

  Fury spun her around, and instinct swung the bag of garbage into a high arc. It crashed down on the shape behind her — a person, definitely a person. A man? She thought so, couldn’t be sure.

  Her follower reached out, a shadowed hand squeezing at her shoulder, trying to grip her. Maggie jerked out of the grasp.

  She swung a second time, putting all her strength into it. Hitting head and shoulders as the figure tried to duck. One seam split, spilling a stream of egg shells, tomato stems, coffee grounds, ripe cans that once held orange juice. She let go of the bag, and felt the top give way in another spurt of smelly garbage.

  The figure recoiled.

  With that momentary advantage, Maggie turned and ran to the main house.

  “Dallas!” she shouted. “Call the police!”

  Inside the back door — still not locked — she slammed it closed behind her, fumbling for the latch. She sprinted through the kitchen and into the hallway, still shouting. Dallas was fumbling his way out of the oversized chair.

  “Wha— What is it? Maggie? What’s wrong?” He squinted at her from eyes heavy with sleep.

  “Someone chased me from the guesthouse. A man. I’m almost sure.” She was panting, winded by more than the short run.

  “Good God. J.D. will find whoever it was.”

  “J.D.?” There was no one else in the room.

  But Dallas was going on. “We thought we’d work in comfort in here. He’s right…” He looked at the couch. On the coffee table sat a neat pile of folders. “He must have stepped out a moment.”

  At the window, Maggie checked the lighted drive. “His truck’s not here. Carson!”

  Silence.

  Confusion showed in Dallas’s eyes. Until he remembered not to show her what he was thinking, and dropped those heavy lids like a curtain.

  Chill understanding swept across Maggie, leaving goose bumps.

  J.D. Carson’s alibi for the murder of Laurel Blankenship Tagner had just evaporated.

  Because that Saturday could have unfolded the way this evening had.

  When Dallas fell asleep, obviously Carson slipped away without the older man ever knowing. So, when her shouting woke Dallas, he still expected to see his associate sitting across from him.

  If she hadn’t arrived, Dallas would have slept on in peace. Carson easily could have slipped back in, awakened the older man at some convenient point and presented himself as having been there all along. Dallas wouldn’t know otherwise.

  As he could have when Laurel was murdered.

  As he could have only a few minutes ago when someone followed her. Roy might have motivation to try to rattle her, but who knew the guesthouse and grounds better than Carson?

  She picked up the phone on the desk in the corner — her phone was back in the guesthouse — and stabbed in numbers.

  “Are you calling the sheriff?”

  “No. He has enough to do.” She hung up, and dialed another number. No answer at either of Roy’s numbers. “What’s Carson’s phone number?”

  She hit the numbers as Dallas recited them. It rang and rang. Until a neutral voice invited her to leave a message. To be sure, she also called the law office, and got the standard message.

  She replaced the phone, said to Dallas, “It could have been him.”

  She saw his recognition that she meant more than chasing her from the guesthouse.

  He shook his head, but said only, “Tell me what happened.”

  When she’d finished, a slight smile lifted his face for a moment. “You’re a resourceful woman, Maggie Frye. A resourceful woman. Moreover, your resourcefulness has put the mark of Cain on the perpetrator. More accurately the stink of refuse on him. If you can find someone who smells, you’ll know you have the man.”

  Damn, if he wasn’t right.

  But only for a short time.

  The person would change, shower as soon as possible to get the stink off.

  If it was Roy, he was already heading out of town, and with myriad routes to choose from her odds of catching him were crap.

  Carson’s options were more limited. If he bore the stink of her counterattack he couldn’t risk seeing anyone else, because when word got out about her follower and the garbage spill — and word would get out in Bedhurst — people would connect him with the incident. He had to get home, fast. To wash off evidence.

  “Where are you goin’?” Dallas called as she sprinted out.

  “I’ll be back.”

  She retraced her route through the house. Outside, instead of the darkened path, she followed the open walk that led to the lane that serviced the guesthouse, then ran down its center to her car, digging out the keys she’d pocketed after locking the guesthouse’s back door. She slammed it into reverse and backed up.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  10:19 p.m.

  It wasn’t the shack in the woods she’d seen four and a half years ago.

  Not only did the address provide GPS navigation straight to his front door by the new road, but what sat around that front door was completely different.

  This was a solid structure with a sharply peaked roof. Not a hut sinking into the forest floor. The wood was weathered gray with no sign of paint. She stepped up three stairs to a porch of the same material, unsoftened by a plant or chair.

  She knocked twice on the equally unadorned door. Then called out his name.

  No answer and no sound inside. She grasped the wrought iron handle, hesitated, then tried it. The door moved easily, opening wide, and she was in his home.

  Lights came on as she entered. She called out again. Nothing.

  From the threshold, softly aged wooden planks stretched in front of her, nearly uninterrupted by furniture. The only upholstered piece in the large room was an oversized chair with matching ottoman set at an angle by the stone fireplace. A wooden rocking chair and settee joined it. There was an open stairway to the right, leading to what she guessed was a loft bedroom.

  In the back left corner, past a door on the far side of the fireplace, was a compact kitchen with cream-painted cabinets, modern appliances and a small island with two stools on this side. In the back right corner, a desk held a computer setup.

  Both of these areas had normal height ceilings, with the loft above. The front of the cabin soared to the peaked roof.

  On the front wall were bookshelves. From floor to high ceiling and from one corner to the other, interrupted only by a pair of windows and the door still open behind her.

  The wall opposite the fireplace was made up entirely of windows. Actually two sets of windows, she saw as she step
ped closer. The interior windows were three sets of sliding glass doors, all open. The room beyond was no more than five feet wide, with a brick floor and a bench along an outside wall, made from more framed windows. It smelled warm and fertile.

  Something caught her eye as she stepped into the bricked area, and she saw the ceiling was also made of windows. The moonlight had caught her attention, casting shadows on plants lining the bench.

  She backed up. Just plants. That’s all. She wouldn’t learn anything from them. She went to the seating area in front of the fireplace. There was nothing on the chairside table. The mantel was a single large squared-off log. Atop it was an uncovered tin box with matches and twists of newspaper inside.

  He left as little out to reveal himself in his home as he did in his expression.

  Except his books.

  She started examining the shelves. Law books. Not the volumes of statutes, but books about the law and about those who practiced it.

  The next section had military books. On snipers. On military theory. On leadership. Then books on the mountains. Nature. Geology. History. A section of fiction, heavy on Dickens.

  “Find what you’re looking for?”

  She was turning even before her gasp formed.

  Wearing only running shorts and shoes, Carson stood inside the side door between the fireplace and kitchen.

  Before she marshaled words, he added, “And does anyone know you’re here? Hope you called the sheriff before you ventured into the woods.”

  “You don’t lock your door. Out here in the middle of nowhere and you don’t lock your door. Why aren’t you robbed blind?” It was an approach Vic had taught her: If direct has thrown you for a loop, make your first cross-examination question quick and sharp. To hide that inside you’re scrambling.

  “You didn’t try to get out.”

  “What?”

  “You can come in, but you can’t get out. Does no one any good to break in if they can’t get out with loot. Besides, word got out fast.”

  “Word of what?”

  He picked a wooden chair up by the back like a lion tamer and pushed it toward the door, touching the handle lightly. A net dropped from the ceiling with lightning speed, but he’d jumped back even faster, leaving the chair captured.

  “You booby-trapped your house?”

  “Only for unwelcomed—” One eyebrow rose. “—or uninvited guests. Some tried to steal building materials from out here early on. Wasn’t comfortable for them. No one’s bothered me much since.”

  Sweat showed on his chest, arms, legs, turned the bottom of his hair shiny dark. She smelled the heat on him. Or felt it.

  “You’ve been running?”

  His eyes glinted, but he said simply, “Yeah.”

  “At night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This late?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In the woods in the dark?”

  “Yeah.”

  Each yeah was more unrevealing than the previous one.

  “How the hell do you see where you’re going?”

  “You don’t. You feel it.”

  “You must have excellent night vision.”

  He opened a set of doors off the kitchen and grabbed a towel he wrapped around his neck. “Coming out here to ask about my night vision is a waste of your time. You have all the information in my old Army files. Including the fact that night runs were part of training. And since you don’t waste time, why did you come?”

  “Someone attacked me.”

  A sharp, assessing look. Drawing a reaction from him that broke through that cool exterior felt like some kind of victory.

  “Attack’s too strong,” she continued. “Tried to spook me, probably. Followed me on the path from the guesthouse to the main house, tried to grab me.”

  “And you came here.”

  She had no reason to feel ashamed. She’d acted on logic and reason. “Yes.”

  “How long ago?”

  She checked her watch. “Twenty-two minutes.”

  “A man?”

  “I think so. I couldn’t see him—” She shrugged at the pronoun. “It was an impression of size, of … movement.”

  She hesitated on that last word. J.D. Carson has a distinct way of moving. Would she have recognized that, even as a shadow? Unless he’d masked it on purpose.

  “What did you expect to get from coming here when you couldn’t make an ID?”

  “I couldn’t see the person, but I should be able to smell him. I hit him with the garbage bag and it broke all over him.”

  He stared at her, his face not quite still. A space by his scar indented.

  He was trying not to grin.

  That didn’t mean he was innocent. He could be wanting to grin because he’d outmaneuvered her.

  “Damn. A new self-defense maneuver. Call it the Maggie Frye Defense.” He uncrossed his arms, spread them wide. “Go ahead and sniff.”

  She ignored the offer.

  “And now that you’ve spent all this time eliminating me, it’s too late to check anyone else.” He let his arms drop.

  “You’re not eliminated. You could have stripped off your smelly outer clothes and put on running clothes. Sweat could mask whatever smell was left.”

  “And still get here in time? I’d have to drive here, stow my guilty clothes and run enough to get this sweaty. That doesn’t leave much time for thinking out this brilliant plan in the first place.”

  “I never said you were stupid.”

  “No, you never did. One thing you haven’t accused me of.” He went into the kitchen, opened the fridge.

  Feeling dismissed, she started to leave. He was right that it was too late to check anyone else. Not only Roy, but Eugene, Rick, even Charlotte or — if it came to that, she supposed — Ed Smith.

  “Maggie.” He still had his back to her. He seemed to stare out the window into the shadowy woods around them. “If you walk into my home uninvited a second time, you better be prepared.”

  “Prepared for wh …?” By the third word, she lost the steam of indignant ignorance.

  She knew. And no matter how strongly she wanted not to know, it was insufficient to stem the knowing.

  He looked over his shoulder at her.

  Damn it.

  Damn him.

  Damn her.

  Damn.

  She gave him back a stare she hoped was saying she’d roast in hell first.

  But she knew all too well that not all hopes are granted.

  As she drove away, the black sky opened to a deluge, which somehow seemed appropriate.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Friday, 9:22 a.m.

  “I’ve got the phone records.”

  J.D. held up the sheets from the doorway of Dallas’ office. Dallas was behind his desk. Maggie sat at the table. The clear space before her had grown another few inches. Another ring of folders had been neatly stacked and — he glanced toward the bookshelves — more books returned to where they belonged. Give the woman a few more weeks, and continued nervous energy, and she’d have Dallas’ office presentable.

  “How’d—?”

  “Sheriff.” He dropped a copy on the table, gave Dallas another, then sat on the sofa with the final one. “He had no objection. The technicalese at the start confirms the records for Pan’s phone are long gone. Better luck with calls to and from Laurel. Guesthouse are here, too.”

  Dallas grunted after flipping through the pages. He’d spotted the problem, too.

  J.D. pointed out Eugene’s home number, as well as two numbers at Rambler Farm. He also ticked off the number to Shenny’s, several clothes stores, the hair stylist, a state liquor ABC in Lynchburg.

  “What about these incoming numbers?” Maggie immediately asked when he paused. She was making notes on her copy.

  “The 555-9624 that shows up only during the day, so not on the records for the guesthouse, is a phone in the courthouse. In an alcove behind Courtroom One, between the courtroom and judge’s chambe
rs.”

  “It’s no help,” Dallas grumbled. “Everybody having trouble with reception uses it and that’s most everybody. There’s people wanderin’ in and out of there all day. I’ve seen bailiffs and judges and lawyers and defendants and witnesses and staff on that phone. I’ve used it myself.”

  “Next best thing to a public phone,” Carson agreed. “Nobody would blink at anybody using that phone. As Dallas said, no help. Then there are four numbers that show a few times each, including for the guesthouse.”

  “Whose?” she asked.

  “Burner phones.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them. One person using four burner phones? Or Laurel knew four people who used burner phones—”

  “No evidence of her using drugs,” Dallas said.

  “Autopsy’s not final.”

  “I happen to be aware that the preliminary findings show no drug use.”

  Maggie muttered happen to be aware, then said more loudly, “And drugs wouldn’t explain the burner numbers showing up for the late-night calls to the guesthouse. I was not ordering home delivery, I promise.”

  “We’ll need evidence of that.” J.D. dodged her glare. “Some of these calls are from Rambler Farm to Laurel’s number and they’re damned late.”

  Dallas reached over to his phone and punched in numbers, putting it on speakerphone. Charlotte answered. “Charlotte, this is Dallas Herbert Monroe calling. How are you today, my dear?”

  “Quite well. How are you?”

  Maggie shifted, her obvious impatience squeaking the chair.

  “Very well, thank you. Lovely reception yesterday. I told Evelyn about those cranberry and brie puffs, and she might be calling your Allarene for the recipe.”

  “I’d be pleased to share that with her, especially if she shares the recipe for her pecan pie.”

  “Oh, now, Charlotte, you know that’s a family secret. She’d be run right out of the DuPree clan if she told anyone.”

  Charlotte said blandly, “I keep hoping.”

  Dallas responded with an obligatory chuckle.

  “Now, Charlotte, I was hopin’ you could answer a little question for us. Hate to bother the judge with something like this. It’s something to follow up on Laurel’s activities the days before the tragedy.”