Proof of Innocence

by Patricia McLinn

  “Not unless it figures in the investigation,” she said.

  They both knew she would tell the sheriff. How confidential it stayed beyond that was anyone’s guess.

  He stood. “I need to go home to my wife.”

  * * * *

  She thought she’d been okay driving back to the office. But when she got out of the car, her legs were rubber.

  Outside the black door under the “Dallas Herbert Monroe & Associate” sign, she hesitated, took three slow deep breaths, then walked in, going straight to Dallas’ office, but unable to not see J.D.’s open door.

  “Anything from Henry Zales?” she asked Dallas.

  “Haven’t been able to get through to him. He’s bein’ grilled six ways from Sunday by as many jurisdictions as can get in line, with Sheriff Gardner at the front.”

  “How about a copy of Rick’s phone records?” She dropped her things on the table.

  “Maggie.”

  “If they’re not, I’ll—”

  “Your copy’s there, but now, while it’s the two of us here, there’s something more—”

  “Leave me alone, Dallas.”

  “Trust your gut.”

  He couldn’t have chosen a worse metaphor considering how her gut felt. “I trust my gut to tell me when I’m hungry or sick, not to ascertain legal matters.”

  “This isn’t a legal matter. It’s deeper than that. You believe in him. You know you do. Look into your heart, girl. Look into your soul. You do know.”

  “Knowing is built from evidence, and I don’t know. I thought there was proof. But — You don’t know, either. He could have left you sleeping by the fire, killed Laurel, and you’d never have known.”

  “It’s more than timetables, Maggie. And you better wake up and realize that. You can’t go through this life waitin’ for every last piece of evidence to line up. You got to rely on yourself. You got to look beyond what you see to what’s really there. You got to feel what’s right. And what’s wrong.”

  Rely on herself? No. “I’m not — I need evidence. I need proof.”

  “You got it backward. Totally backward. You want proof that J.D.’s not a murderer. But here you stand, like a divinin’ rod of truth. Don’t you see it, girl? Don’t you understand? It’s you. You are his proof of innocence. You’re the only key that will finally let him out of this county.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  She outlasted Dallas by refusing to respond and by keeping her head down, studying phone records.

  Evelyn came by around six and announced Dallas was done for the day. He started to protest. She said he was coming home, having dinner, and resting or she was calling the doctor. Immediately.

  She gave Maggie a couple shots, too, about working herself to death doing no one any good.

  Maggie outlasted her, too.

  They left, Maggie remained.

  Her eyes, though, might have the last word.

  Studying the logs of Rick Wade’s calls over the past ten days, then comparing them to Laurel’s and the guesthouse’s, had her longing for a little light reading among legal precedents.

  She rubbed her eyes. This was entirely too up close with phone records.

  Rick Wade had called every number listed to and from Laurel’s phones in the days leading up to her murder.

  At most, his calls to those numbers lasted a minute or two, many of them considerably less. Except his call to the main number of Zales’ firm. Presumably it took some conversation to set up a golf game.

  But why?

  She sighed. If there was anything to learn from Henry Zales, Gardner, the state guys working with him, and his counterparts in Rockbridge County, where Wade had died, were hard at it. No hope anyone else would get a crack at him any time soon.

  But there was something else intriguing. Shortly after hanging up with the firm, Wade had called a number in Northern Virginia.

  Could it be the woman Bel had tracked down?

  As Maggie Googled the number, she was anticipating calling Bel, being told it was the woman’s number, closing one damned loop in a made up entirely of open loops and—

  The number was an elementary school. Certainly closed over the weekend. She called it anyway. No answer.

  With her finger still on the screen from ending her outgoing call, one came in.

  She hit answer immediately, saw it was Jamie, and recognized she didn’t regret answering it.

  “Hi, Jamie.”

  There was a pause on the other end. Her cousin might have been as surprised as she was.

  “Maggie. How is your case coming?”

  “It’s not a case yet, and likely won’t be mine if it ever is one. I seem to be sort of investigating.”

  “Oh? Is it going well?”

  “It’s going shittily.”

  A single syllable of amusement came from Jamie. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay. It’s not your fault the whole situation sucks.”

  “Maggie, are you—?”

  “Don’t say it, Jamie. Don’t say it. I’m so sick of people asking me if I’m okay.”

  “I’m sorry. I won’t. I get that. I’ll just — Will you be in town Monday? Lunchtime?”

  “I better be or I won’t still have a job.”

  “Oh. Well, will you come to lunch? Ally and I can come to the courthouse area so you don’t have to go far.”

  “Chad’s aunt’s still in town?”

  “Yeah, and Ally’s agreed to come. I really need to talk to you both.”

  “Are you—?” She couldn’t ask what she wouldn’t answer. “I’ll be there. Set the time with Nancy. I—”

  The bell chimed, announcing the office’s front door had opened.

  “—gotta go now. Somebody’s here. See you then.”

  Charlotte Blankenship Smith stood in the doorway of the office.

  “Was that my husband on the phone?”

  Maggie looked at the screen as if it might answer that odd demand. “Ed? No. Are you trying to get in touch with him?”

  “No. I am here to tell you to not touch him.”

  Maggie pulled in a long breath, hoping her calm would be contagious. Though Charlotte did not sound angry or agitated. Just delusional.

  “Charlotte, Ed and I are colleagues. Friendly colleagues.”

  “I know you talked to him this afternoon.”

  Did she? How? Listening in on phone calls? Following him? How deep did this paranoia go?

  “Yes, we did talk. About your sister’s murder and the progress of the investigation. He’s very concerned about the toll Laurel’s death has taken on you.”

  Uninvited, Charlotte pulled out a chair. She put one hand down first and lowered herself to the seat with the weary care of the elderly.

  “Laurel’s death has taken a toll? No, no, not her death. Her life. Do you know what she told me about why she fucked Edward before our wedding? To be sure he wasn’t worth taking away from me for good.”

  Maggie had interviewed her share of witnesses with mental illness or addiction or the always popular daily double of both. But the combination of Charlotte’s pedantic tone and the hostile words chilled her.

  “She thought I’d seen something in him she’d missed. Isn’t that laughable? What I’d seen was a man who might interest the judge. And she never had to worry about that. Just being was all she had to do. The judge always saw her — looked for her, wanted her there. But I—” Her voice shook for the first time. “I had to be his slave, marry a man he could talk to, and even then he hardly noticed me. And her — her — she didn’t have to do anything. So all she’d missed in Edward was what she’d never needed.”

  “Then why were you worried she might try to take him away?”

  Charlotte raised her eyes without moving her head. They said, You stupid woman, clear as day. “Because she could. That was reason enough for Laurel. As it is for other women. Like you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  “Me? Charlotte, you are comp
letely wrong if you think—”

  The front door bell sounded again. Almost immediately, Scott walked in and stopped, looking from one to the other of them.

  Behind him came Eugene and Renee.

  All three of them appeared surprised to see anyone still in the office.

  Into the frozen moment, Charlotte rose, picked up her purse, and started out.

  Maggie stood. “Charlotte, you are wrong about — about what you said. If you want to talk more—”

  The bell chimed again and Charlotte was gone.

  “Sorry if we interrupted.” Scott appeared confused.

  “It’s fine.”

  “We stopped in to pick up work I did for Renee that I left here. Are you still working? You haven’t had any dinner?”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Oh, honey, you got to have something. We were just considering supper, too,” Renee said. “Eugene, you go get us all something from Cheforie’s and when you come on back, Scott and I’ll be done with our business.”

  Maggie thought she saw protest brewing in Eugene. If so, it passed before any expression of it emerged. He took orders and left.

  Renee followed Scott to the back, Maggie returned to Dallas’ office and the phone records.

  Eugene delivered and they ate at the cleared end of the table with desultory conversation, carried mostly by Renee and Scott. Eugene kept shooting Maggie looks as if he expected her to strike.

  He did not encourage lingering when the food was finished. At least he, Renee, and Scott said good-night when they left.

  As she put her things together more than an hour later, Maggie’s mind returned to Charlotte’s strange visit.

  She certainly had a chip on her shoulder about her sister. Possibly with cause.

  But did that chip apply to more than Laurel?

  We’re all supposed to do the right thing. Only some people get applauded for it, like J.D., while others don’t. And then there are those who don’t need to do anything at all and still get applauded.

  Driving away, Maggie saw a vehicle close behind her. Uh-oh. Had she pulled out in front of them without looking? If so, she’d been away from Fairlington too long. She’d also been away too long if a little tailgating bothered her.

  You’re like them, you know … Pan and Laurel. Just like them. It all came easy. Never had to work. Never had to work to be loved, either.

  Presumably the flip side was Charlotte had had to work — filling her mother’s shoes as mistress of Rambler Farm, taking care of the judge, upholding the family name. Charlotte the reliable. Charlotte the indispensable. Charlotte the unappreciated.

  Oh, yes, she saw herself that way.

  And what about love? Her father’s? Her husband’s? She felt she’d had to work for that while Laurel waltzed through life taking for granted she deserved to have whatever she wanted?

  Thinking about Charlotte was giving her a headache.

  No, Maggie realized, the piercing glare of the headlights still behind her were causing the headache. She flipped the lever on the rearview mirror to dim the lights.

  Too bad it wasn’t as easy to switch the angle on her thoughts.

  Charlotte clearly resented Laurel. Couldn’t totally fault her for it, either. Unless it had led to murder.

  Charlotte had lumped Pan in with Laurel. Yet there’d been no direct competition between the two women. At least that Maggie knew of. Certainly not for the affections of the judge or Ed, who hadn’t come along until after Pan’s murder. Or for the affections of J.D., because Charlotte’s lack of interest there rang true.

  Maggie left Main Street, automatically noting the lights followed. Probably a truck, since the lights were higher than her sedan.

  What about Rick Wade?

  Could Charlotte have harbored resentment against Pan from their school days when the girl everyone loved won the town’s destined-for-success golden boy? Even after the gold tarnished and his limited success came ready-made from his family’s business?

  Possibly.

  On the other hand, Charlotte had included Maggie in her mix of people who had never had to work, including for love. Which nudged Charlotte significantly closer to off-the-charts whacko.

  * * * *

  Dallas watched Evelyn put away the clean dinner dishes.

  “I’m old, Evelyn.”

  Her rhythm never broke. “Getting there.”

  “I should have died when Ruth did.”

  “You’ve got too much imagination for that.”

  “What does imagination have to do with it?”

  “Comes in handy for all sorts of things, but folks surely need imagination to see living a life — a good life — after someone they love’s gone.”

  “You had such imagination?”

  “Had to,” she said flatly. “Had it then. Have it now.”

  “Imagination,” he repeated. “Imagination to keep on living.”

  Voices tumbled through his head. Voices of the departed, and of those still here. When he spoke, the words came before he’d formed and polished the thought. “Maybe imagination to keep on killing, too.”

  “Maybe.” She sorted utensils into the drawer.

  The tumbling sped up. Whirling, kaleidoscopic flashes of blinding colors mixed with glimpses beneath that surface to dank, depthless shadows. Too fast. Too sickeningly fast.

  Clammy sweat oozed on his forehead, under his arms.

  * * * *

  9:16 p.m.

  Maggie made the final turn into the dirt lane that dead-ended beside the guesthouse, and frowned again into the rearview mirror The lights had followed.

  She flipped the lever on the rearview mirror to normal and the glare jumped out.

  Could it be someone coming to see her? If so, they didn’t know how quickly the end of this lane was approaching.

  She slowed. The vehicle behind her didn’t, narrowing the gap until she imagined she felt the other engine’s heat on her back. She eased her foot off the brake, tapped twice, flashing the lights to the other driver.

  In that instant the vehicle’s high beams burst on, blazing through her car and out through the windshield, creating a spotlight on the fence.

  If you count on that fence holding you, you’re going to find yourself smashed up.

  Maggie hit the brakes hard. If the idiot hit her, she’d deal with a damaged bumper.

  The vehicle behind her — yes, a pickup — banged her bumper. Her car pulsed forward. She jammed the brakes as hard as she could.

  This was no accident, no lost driver.

  In the narrow lane, there was nowhere to go, no room to escape.

  * * * *

  “Dallas?” Evelyn’s voice sounded distant.

  You got to look beyond what you see to what’s really there. You got to feel what’s right. And what’s wrong.

  His own words. But why? Why had they joined the whirl?

  Was his heart giving out? Or had he seen—

  “Dallas!”

  Fear.

  Evelyn was afraid.

  It pulled him back. He grabbed his head in both hands, forcing the kaleidoscope to stillness.

  “What? What’s wrong?” His own voice sounded odd.

  She peered out the window toward the guesthouse. “Sounded like a car crash from back at the end of the lane. But it was wrong. No brakes or — There. Hear it?”

  He did. He lumbered up, heading for the door.

  “Call the sheriff!” he ordered.

  She already had the phone in her hand.

  “Don’t you do anything stupid, Dallas Herbert,” she ordered as she hit numbers.

  The sick feeling came back. The feeling the kaleidoscope was getting worse.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  The truck connected hard with the Honda’s bumper. Maggie heard the engine revving behind her, the tires of the truck biting into the dirt. Without letting up on the brake pedal, she yanked on the emergency brake. The smell of heat and rubber rose.

  She reached for
the door handle, felt the Honda’s tires jerk forward, skidding on the dirt.

  Before she could get the door open, the fence rose up.

  …Smashed up…

  Sixty feet. Sixty feet of trees and rocks to the creek below.

  Trees…

  Damned if she was going nose down to her doom.

  She popped her foot off the brake and yanked the steering wheel as hard as she could to the left, hoping the passenger side would take the brunt. The truck behind gave another shove, and the right front of the Honda broke through like the fence was straw, the rear end swinging around under the force of her yanking. The car skidded over the edge of the earth. It felt as if the rear caught on something, but she felt the front angling down, a sensation like being at the top of a slide, in the moment before the plunge.

  A plunge into blackness.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  “Maggie! Maggie!”

  The dim form slumped over the wheel of her Honda didn’t stir at Dallas’ call.

  The sky still showed faint daylight, but little reached under the canopy around the guesthouse and none down the drop-off to the creek.

  J.D. took it all in. Gave his first order. “Aim the light at the driver’s door, so I can see.”

  “You can’t go down there, J.D. Evelyn has called 9-1-1. Wait until help comes. Until we can see—”

  “Fuck that.”

  He heard the lack of control in his voice. Made himself draw in a breath, let it out. Draw in another, let it out.

  He sprinted to the side of the guesthouse, unwound the hose until there was one loop left around the holder to add strength. It was too thick and unpliable to tie around his waist, but at least it would give him something to climb if necessary.

  Her car angled down at forty-five degrees, the rear passenger side caught by the sizable stump of an old tree with the front held only by the trunks of two small trees, neither much more than a sapling. If they let go, the whole thing would go.