by Ken Casper
Jed laughed in spite of himself. “If you’re interested in first editions, I have a much larger collection in here that I’ll be glad to show you.”
As if on cue, June appeared in the doorway from the small hall. “May I get you gentlemen anything?”
Jed turned to his guest. “Something cold, hot or perhaps stronger?” They decided on June’s homemade lemonade.
“I must tell you, Mr. Thorndyke, I’m surprised you’re here, or more correctly, I’m surprised Ms. Miller called you. I’m afraid I wasn’t very kind to her last evening.” Jed pictured the strange commingling of shame and anger on Gwyn’s face when she’d told him who she was.
The older man groaned audibly. “I’ve known her since she was born. I watched her grow up and take control of her life. You’ll soon learn, if you haven’t already, that Gwyneth Miller is a very strong and determined person. She does what’s right regardless of what it may cost her.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“Your reaction to her yesterday when you found out she was one of the Millers isn’t uncommon, Mr. Louis. It’s what she’s been fleeing most of her life.” More sympathetically, Thorndyke added, “She’s a good woman, Jed. That should be enough for anyone.”
Jed instantly realized why this man was such a formidable advocate. In a few words he’d both reprimanded and encouraged his client, made him ashamed of his treatment of Gwyn and intimated that the breach could be repaired.
June reappeared, served their drinks and left a tray with a crystal pitcher and ice bucket. Apparently satisfied that he’d said enough, the attorney pressed on.
“Gwyn tells me you expect to be charged with the murder of your foster mother.”
Even though the idea had been bouncing around in his head since the sheriff’s initial visit, hearing the words spoken out loud sent a shiver down his spine. “The possibility seems a real one.”
“Why?”
Jed’s inclination was to furnish a minimum of detail on his life with Frannie Granger and her abrupt disappearance, but he realized nothing would be gained by holding back. If this man was going to help him he needed as much information as possible. Jed took the better part of an hour to tell his story. The death of his twenty-three-year-old mother. His being placed under Frannie Granger’s foster care. The death of his uncle a few years later and the shock of finding out he had actually inherited Beaumarais. Life with his foster sister, Emerald Monday, and finally his gaining a foster brother who was a juvenile delinquent.
The lawyer listened attentively, asked occasional questions for clarification, but otherwise allowed Jed to ramble on at his own pace.
“Who were Ms. Granger’s enemies?” Thorndyke finally asked.
Jed shook his head. “I never knew she had any,” he replied sadly. “She was well liked.”
“You say she cleaned houses. Servants and housekeepers get to learn confidences. Could she have discovered something about one of her clients that threatened them?”
“If you’re suggesting she might have been blackmailing someone, you’re way off the mark. Frannie wasn’t that kind of person. I don’t recall her ever mentioning anything personal about any of her clients, not even on the cleanliness of their houses. She wasn’t a gossip, Mr. Thorndyke. She minded her own business. Ask the people around here who knew her. I don’t think you’ll find anyone who has an unkind word to say about her.”
Tracing a finger along one of the bookshelves, his back to Jed, he commented, “There’s a flaw in your logic. You realize that, don’t you?”
Jed inhaled dejection. “Someone killed her—therefore she must have had an enemy. Unless it was an accident.”
With an unconvincing shrug, Thorndyke conceded the point. “People don’t normally bury innocent accidents,” he observed. “As far as you know, does the sheriff have any other suspects?”
Jed shook his head. “I’m not aware of any.”
Thorndyke turned around. “You’re suggesting he has a personal animus to you. Why?”
Jed dragged a hand through his hair. “It goes back to before Frannie’s disappearance. My foster brother, Will McClain, had a run-in or two with the law right after he came to live with us. Fielder was a hard-ass deputy back then who wasn’t above physical intimidation of suspects. When Frannie found out he’d slapped Will around, she threatened to bring charges of police brutality against him if he ever did it again.”
One brow raised, the lawyer asked, “Would she have?”
“Oh, yes. Frannie was patient and forgiving, but she didn’t make idle threats.”
“How long after her confrontation with Fielder did she disappear?”
Was Thorndyke suggesting Fielder might have had something to do with her untimely end? Remarkably, the notion had never entered Jed’s mind. Thinking about it now, he realized it had merit. Logan Fielder had failed to find Frannie’s body, even though it was buried only a few hundred yards from her home. Now, all these years later, his incompetence was surfacing and he was trying to pin the murder on Jed.
“Will was with us about four years,” Jed responded. “All Frannie’s serious problems with him were in the first few months, so I’d say it was two or three years between her showdown with Fielder and her disappearance.”
“Could Will have had another run-in with Fielder that resulted in another clash between him and Frannie?”
Jed’s brow furled. Why hadn’t he thought of this possibility? “Will didn’t tell me about any other incidents with the police . . .” He let the words trail off.
“Would he have?”
They were as close as brothers by that time, or Jed thought they were. “I think so . . . unless it had just happened and he didn’t have time,” he said pensively.
Thorndyke considered him carefully. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Jed lowered his head and studied the sweaty glass in his hand. “Frannie disappeared on Tuesday. We were all worried sick, especially Emmy. Will and I spent most of our time trying to reassure her Frannie would show up, that there would be a perfectly reasonable explanation for her not coming home. The next morning, Wednesday, I insisted we go to school as usual. I guess I was hoping we’d come back in the afternoon and find Frannie there. But when Will and I got home all we found was the note the social workers had left saying they’d taken Emmy. Will panicked. He was convinced they’d be coming for him next and he had no intention of being swallowed up by the system again. He packed up and hightailed it out of there. We didn’t really have any time to talk.”
“So it’s possible he had another problem with the sheriff and you didn’t know about it.”
“It’s possible, Mr. Thorndyke, but I really don’t think so.”
“Call me Thorny. Was McClain the only reason Frannie and Fielder didn’t get along?”
Jed sipped his drink. The ice was nearly melted now. “I don’t know, but I can tell you this. The hostility between them was . . . visceral. They really couldn’t stand each other, and by extension he couldn’t stand us.”
Jed rose and paced in front of the fireplace. “Fielder couldn’t find a trace of Frannie,” he muttered, as if talking to himself rather than his lawyer. “He came to the school Wednesday morning and questioned Will, Emmy and me separately. That afternoon, Emmy was yanked out of class by Social Services, and Will ran off. With them out of the picture, Fielder zeroed in on me.” Jed studied the older man, meandered around the room and finally settled into a wingback chair over near the desk. “For the next week, he brought me into the station house just about every day for interrogation. He kept asking me the same questions over and over again, and each time he’d twist what I said to make it sound like something else.”
Which was why Jed was so reluctant to answer questions now—fear of how Fielder would use whatever he said against him.
“Then the newspapers started bugging him,” he continued. “Fielder lashed out with a cock-and-bull story that Frannie had simply had enough of us kids and took off. I wrote a letter to the editor saying the idea was stupid and that anyone proposing such a theory was obviously incompetent.”
Thorndyke grinned, but said nothing.
“The next time the sheriff tried to pull me in for questioning,” Jed continued, “I told him to either arrest me or get off my back.”
It was his first real lesson in facing down a bully. Even now, the recollection of his small victory felt good.
“He and I managed to stay out of each other’s way for a long time,” he continued. “When he stood for reelection a few years later, I publicly opposed him and endorsed the other candidate, and I’ve consistently supported his opposition in every election since.”
Thorndyke nodded. “In your estimation, is he stupid or just incompetent?”
“He’s not stupid . . . or dishonest as far as I can tell. There hasn’t been a hint of corruption in the sheriff’s department since he’s been in office.”
“Which means he’s either clean or exceptionally good at covering his dirt,” Thorny opined. “Might bear investigating.”
“As for incompetent,” Jed added, “in the case of Frannie’s death, he obviously was. After all, he couldn’t find her body when it was buried only a few yards over the fence from her property. In other areas, I’d have to say he’s been a good sheriff. My opposition to him had been personal, not professional. I know that’s something I shouldn’t admit—”
“Not in public.” Thorny rose easily from his chair and wandered again with seeming aimlessness around the room, examining book titles, picking up various objects to study.
“Can I ask you something?” Jed inquired, and received a nod. “Why are you here? Surely you didn’t interrupt what must be a very busy schedule just to come and see me.”
Thorndyke pinched his pursed lips, his eyes smiling. “I was in Shreveport on my way to Dallas to see a client there. This wasn’t a big detour.”
“And Gwyn knew your itinerary?” It all seemed too convenient.
“We happened to talk last weekend, so she knew my general schedule. We were lucky things worked out.”
“Does that mean you’ll take my case?”
“It’s a little premature at the moment, but if push comes to shove and you need me, I’d like to help.” Thorny twirled the large globe near the windows overlooking the garden, then turned to face his host. He quoted his fee.
Jed was tempted to emit a low whistle, but he maintained a deadpan expression. “That’s acceptable.”
“There are other conditions.”
Jed waited.
“You have to remain absolutely mute in public about this case. Make no comments about the sheriff, his people, the progress of the investigation or anyone involved in it. Give no interviews to the press. I’ll issue all public statements. Is that acceptable?”
Jed nodded.
“Has the sheriff scheduled a formal interview with you?”
“No, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of—”
“Should he contact you, refuse to answer any of his questions, even the most innocent-sounding ones.” He removed a card from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to his client. “Call anytime, day or night, even if it’s only with questions. You don’t strike me as the impetuous, volatile type, Mr. Louis. Don’t disappoint me. Sheriff Fielder will try very hard to provoke you into making statements he can use against you. Don’t give him the ammunition he wants.”
The relief Jed felt in having the famous attorney available to take his case was tempered by his strict gag order. Was it standard procedure on his part, or did the Great Thorn seriously think Jed Louis was in danger of being convicted of murder?
Chapter Twelve
SHE’D PROMISED herself she wasn’t going to rush to answer the phone. Then she picked it up on the first ring.
“Gwyn—” his voice was quiet, even solicitous “—first of all, let me apologize for last night.”
She said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
“Second, thank you for calling Thorndyke. He was just here and—”
Her palms were clammy, but she managed to make her tone flat and unemotional. “Is he taking your case?”
“Yes, and I really appreciate—”
“Good,” she cut him off. “I’m glad things are working out for you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Jed, I have things to do.” She hung up.
FEELING DEPRESSED, Jed called his friend. “Think you can put up with a visitor this evening?”
“Anytime,” Riley said. “But don’t bring Alanna any more sweets. You keep spoiling her.”
“I don’t imagine she’d like a pickle.”
Riley laughed. “Just come on over, my friend. Seeing you is treat enough. As it is, you’ll get her all excited, and it’ll take me an extra hour to get her calmed down enough to fall asleep.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t come.”
“You’re in a funk. We eat at six. Be here.”
Dinner turned out to be hot dogs, boiled for Alanna, done on the grill outside for the two adults. Jed had stopped off and bought a large-piece puzzle. While the girl played with it, Jed told Riley about Thorndyke’s visit.
“You know who she is, don’t you?” Jed asked.
“Senator Wingate Miller’s daughter.”
Jed exhaled loudly. “How long have you known?”
Riley turned their franks and put buns on to toast. “I had my first clue when she made the offer yesterday. I came back here and did some research on the Internet.”
His friend had figured it out by himself, which only made Jed feel more inept. “She’s not very proud of it.”
Riley didn’t seem shocked by the revelation. “Wealth and politics often have a deleterious effect on human relations,” he philosophized.
Riley went inside, retrieved his daughter’s hot dogs, a pot of baked beans and a condiment tray from the refrigerator. He brought them outside, fixed Alanna’s plate, and the three of them sat at the picnic table nearby.
Jed studied the glass dish of pickles, olives, radishes and raw carrots. “Do you like olives?” he asked the little girl.
“They’re okay, I guess.” She tried another puzzle piece, which didn’t fit.
“I bet you don’t know how to eat them.”
She looked at him funny. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you can pop them in your mouth like this.” He did so. “Or you can make it fun.”
She kept her eyes on him, not sure what he was talking about. “How?”
“Give me your hand.”
She offered it.
“Now—” he picked up a pitted black olive “—we take one of these and put it right here.” He stuck her index finger in the hole. “You do one.”
Giggling, she placed another one on the next finger. “This is fun, Daddy.”
Riley scowled at Jed, but there was appreciative humor behind it.
“Well,” Jed justified himself, “you said no sweets.”
Later, after the little girl had finished eating and run off to play once more with her puzzle, Riley commented, “Gwyn’s entitled to her privacy, Jed, just as you are. You probably ought to tell her that.”
THE CADDO ANGLERS’ BALL had begun fifty years earlier as a simple country club fish fry, but it had grown over the years into a weeklong fair to raise money for charities. It started on Sunday afternoon with the actual fish fry and continued every afternoon and evening for a week, bringing visitors from miles around. Tents were set up for concession booths and there was a small assortment of carnival rides and an even bigger choice of traditional competitions, ranging from horseshoes to three-legged races an
d a watermelon seed spitting contest. The festivities culminated the following Saturday night in the formal grand ball itself.
Unlike his uncle, Jed contributed more than just a token cash donation. He harnessed two of his giant Percherons, hitched them to a vintage buckboard, which he loaded with bales of hay, and spent Sunday afternoon, every evening and all day Saturday giving hayrides. It was one of the most popular activities among kids and adults. This year, however, he had competition.
After the churches let out Sunday morning, most of the people in town migrated to the campground, where they indulged in fried catfish, hush puppies and coleslaw. Rather than get in the long line for the greasy foods, Jed went to where he’d had his crew set up his wagon and team. Across the wide aisle, in a smaller corral, was a scaled-down open brougham. Hitched to it were eight miniature horses. Diligently checking the harnesses was Gwyn Miller.
The sight of her in tight jeans bending over the diminutive palominos caught his breath. His libido stuttered when the tassels on the sleeves of her red western shirt brushed against her breasts. He would have called out her name, but he couldn’t seem to get any sounds through his open mouth. Sensing he was staring at her, she turned her head and glanced up from under the brim of her cowboy hat. She straightened and looked at him but didn’t say a word.
She ran her thumbs along the waistband of her jeans, smoothing out the shirt. Jed continued to gape. The fabric fit snugly, tapering down from her breasts to her narrow waist. The jeans rounded her hips to distraction. Without realizing it, he swallowed hard.
“Gwyn, how nice to see you,” he said inanely, wondering if she was going to give him the cold shoulder. “I didn’t know you were participating in this.”
She tossed him a casual glance, not exactly hail-fellow-well-met, but she didn’t tell him to get lost, either. “I’m a sucker for charities.”
“Um, I didn’t know you had a brougham.”
She smirked. “What did you think I harnessed them to?”