by Ken Casper
“So who’s this Norman Hollis guy?” a fourth woman asked. “I can’t remember ever hearing the name.”
“He writes as Simon Sezz,” Cassie explained as she topped off a cup. “Came in this morning for coffee and a Danish. Didn’t want it heated up in the microwave, either. Had Jake stick it in the bake oven for two minutes. Said microwaves toughened the dough.”
An older woman in a muumuu, who sat at the end of the table, snorted. “Anyone who would eat one of those plastic-wrapped things wouldn’t know dough from dirt.” Judging from the woman’s bulk, she made everything from scratch and did a lot of sampling in the process.
“They’re not that bad,” Cassie assured her. “Especially if you’re in a hurry. With a pat of butter melted on top they’re actually pretty good.”
“So what’s this Hollis character doing here, anyway?” number three asked impatiently.
“Cassie, I think you have a customer,” called the woman at the other end of the table, who until then had remained silent. She nodded toward the counter.
Cassie looked up. “Oh, hi, Gwyn. I was so caught up with this reporter being here that I didn’t see you come in.” She walked behind the end of the counter. “What’ll you have, hon? Not a Danish, I hope. We’re all out. The guy who was in a little while ago ate the last two.”
Gwyn chuckled. “Just coffee, thanks. Who’s this reporter you’re talking about?”
Cassie placed a thick mug in front of Gwyn and filled it with steaming coffee from a fresh pot she’d removed from under the dip spout of the coffee-maker. “He’s from the National Tabloid, you know, that tells-it-all rag that comes out every week.”
An uncomfortable feeling churned in Gwyn’s stomach. She’d never heard of good news being published in one of those scandal sheets. “What’s he doing in Uncertain?”
“Here to cover Frannie Granger’s murder. Says he’s fixing to talk to everyone in town.”
The knot in Gwyn’s insides grew tighter.
One of the ladies at the table chortled. “In Uncertain that shouldn’t take long.”
More seriously Cassie said, “Claims he’s already interviewed the sheriff.”
“Can’t imagine Logan telling him much,” the woman holding the baby commented.
“You never know,” someone else piped up. “Logan’s pretty good at beating his own drum when he has a mind to.”
“How long’s this reporter planning to be here?” Gwyn asked.
Cassie shrugged. “Says he’ll be hanging around for a while, but wouldn’t say exactly how long. He’s staying at the Kit and Caboodle Cottages.”
“Why would he or anyone else outside Uncertain care about Frannie Granger?” one of the older women asked. Gwyn had the same question in her mind. “I mean, I liked Frannie, but she wasn’t some famous celebrity or anything.”
“She will be by the time Simon Sezz gets finished with her,” Cassie noted. “Maybe it’s just the intrigue of a nearly twenty-year-old murder.”
“Jed Louis is the only one of her foster kids still around.”
“I’m sure that reporter will make something of that,” said the stroller woman. “Think he’ll try to interview him?”
The skinny woman at the end of the table cackled. “Easier to get blood from a turnip. Jed Louis can be very tight-lipped and discreet when it comes to his own affairs.”
There were several snickers.
“That may be so,” said the mother holding the infant, “but it’s going to be hard finding anyone who’ll say a mean word against him.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” the big woman commented. “He didn’t get to be a successful businessman and own half the county by being a nice guy. Success makes enemies.”
“I never heard of him cheating anyone,” Cassie contributed.
“That’s ’cause most people don’t like to admit they’ve been hoodwinked or outmaneuvered,” came the reply. “Give them half a chance, though, and the dirt’ll come out.”
A couple of heads nodded thoughtfully.
“Well, however he does business now,” Cassie insisted, “has nothing to do with Frannie getting killed.”
“People don’t change,” the skinny woman observed. “He used to have a pretty bad temper, got mixed up with the police—”
“When he was a kid and Will McClain was around,” the mother holding the infant chimed in. “McClain was the one who got him into trouble, as I recall.”
“That may be. But the record’s still there.”
“At least he didn’t run off,” Cassie argued.
“Because he had Ray Jennings to protect him. When you’re fixin’ to inherit a place like Beaumarais and a whole bunch of money, it’s easy to find people willing to come to your rescue.”
“He’s helped a lot of people in this town, too.”
“Ray?” the woman holding the baby asked in amazement.
“Not Ray, silly. I bet the only reason our playboy banker helped Jed was that he was the trustee for his uncle’s estate and wanted to stay on Jed’s good side. He’s made big bucks on Louis’s investments. No, I’m talking about Jed. When my Harry got laid off last year, Jed was the one who gave him part-time work until he could find another full-time job.”
“You don’t really think he could have killed her, do you?” the mother with the stroller asked.
The woman in the muumuu shrugged her heavy shoulders. “People with money get away with a lot of things.”
“But not Jed,” the other woman objected.
Cassie caught the concern in Gwyn’s eyes. “You should have seen him at the ball the other night,” she observed to the others. “I’ve always thought tuxedos did something for a man, but what that man does for a tuxedo is downright sinful.”
A little shiver of excitement shot through Gwyn at the memory of him holding her in his arms. “You were there?” she blurted out. “I don’t remember seeing you.”
Cassie looked at her and laughed good-naturedly. “No reason you should have, hon. I was busy keeping the service bars stocked with ice and clean glasses. Maybe someday Hank and me can spring a hundred bucks a person to go to a charity dance, but not this year.” There was no bitterness in the remark, Gwyn noted. Just an acceptance of the way things were. On the other hand, Gwyn remembered the waitress mentioning having a couple of kids. No dance could make up for that.
“I saw you, though,” Cassie continued. “I really liked that dress you were wearing. The way Jed kept looking at you, I reckon he did, too.”
Remaining at the counter, Gwyn found herself drawn into conversation with all the women, but after a refill of coffee she didn’t ask for, she excused herself and left. She had to let Jed know he was about to be tried in the court of public opinion.
Chapter Sixteen
THE NATIONAL TABLOID came out on Thursdays.
Gwyn bought two copies of the rag first thing Thursday morning and carried them to Beaumarais. By now, June regarded her and Romeo as regular visitors and showed them immediately into the breakfast room. While the dog settled in the corner by the window, head resting contentedly on his paws, his people read the article in silence over coffee and bran muffins.
“He’s good with words,” Jed commented dryly.
“A thief with words, you mean,” she retorted. “He steals truth and mangles it. Is anything he says factually incorrect?”
“He’s too smart for that. No, the facts are all accurate—as far as they go.” He scanned the article again. “He accomplishes one thing, though.”
Gwyn couldn’t see anything redeeming about the twisted syntax. “What’s that?”
“Simon Sezz confirms that Fielder’s mind is made up.” Jed quoted from a paragraph on the third page: “ ‘Sheriff Logan Fielder informed this reporter that his only suspect at this time is Je
d Louis. Mr. Louis is the man who inherited Beaumarais, one of the few and best preserved antebellum plantation mansions in East Texas. Asked why the prominent landowner and reputable Percheron horse breeder was his prime suspect, Logan Fielder replied that it was a matter of elimination. Of Granger’s three foster children, Louis is the only one left.’ ”
Jed winced as if in pain. “He makes it sound like Emmy and Will are dead.”
Gwyn bit her lip. “Is it possible they are?”
Blinking slowly, Jed shook his head in denial. Gwyn wasn’t sure whether it was in rejection of the premise or that it might actually be true. “I told you what happened to them. Social Services kidnapped Emmy, and Will ran off.”
But did it end there? Could whoever killed Frannie have found them and killed them, too? How else explain why they never contacted Jed? The supposition raised more questions—like, why kill them at all? And why then not kill Jed, as well? It didn’t make sense.
Unless Jed was the killer. Fielder’s logic, that Jed was the lone survivor and therefore must be the murderer, was a frightening premise.
“Phone call, Mr. Jed,” June announced from the doorway. Gwyn hadn’t even heard it ring in the background. “Mr. Thorndyke.”
Jed reached behind him to the small table within arm’s reach and picked up the muted instrument. He spoke for only a minute before hanging up.
“Thorny’s passing through on his way back to Shreveport. He’s coming for lunch. Care to join us?”
She was a little surprised by the invitation. This couldn’t be a purely social visit. Discussions between attorney and client were usually very private. “If he’ll let me. Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, but I think it’s pretty obvious.” He held up the newspaper, which he’d laid neatly folded beside his plate.
Gwyn considered for only a moment. “I still have animals to feed. What time will he be here?”
“Noon.”
Gwyn looked at her watch. “That should give me enough time to get my chores done.”
There was a slight hesitation before Jed added, “I have a feeling I’m going to need your moral support.”
Did he know what she’d been thinking? “I’ll try to get here a few minutes before twelve.”
JED FOUND HIMSELF watching the way Gwyn and Thorny greeted each other. She’d given up her old life, yet there was a comfortable familiarity between them, as if he were a favorite uncle. Thorny expressed no concern about her sitting in on the lunch meeting.
They ate on the veranda, a seafood salad with pita bread. Thorny had turned down the offer of beer or wine, so they all opted for iced tea, which June served in copious amounts.
After the obligatory pleasantries, Thorny got to the point of his visit. “Any idea who called Hollis?”
It was a question Jed had been mulling over. Unfortunately, he’d been unable to come up with any candidates.
“None,” he said. “Since the sheriff gave him an interview, I thought maybe he had, but even Fielder isn’t that low. I would think a journalist, especially the muckraking kind, is the last person he’d want breathing down his neck and second-guessing him.”
“It’s not Fielder. I checked,” Thorny declared between bites of chilled lobster.
“How do you know?” Gwyn inquired.
“Simple. I asked him.”
“And he answered?” The very notion of getting any information out of his archenemy astounded Jed.
The attorney stuck his tongue in his cheek as he examined a marinated scallop on the tip of his fork. “He’s not very happy with the situation. At the moment his opinion of the press is even lower than his opinion of lawyers.”
Gwyn’s smile was perfunctory while she waited for him to elaborate. Which he did after the effective use of a pause.
“Seems the so-called interview he gave Hollis was more like a lecture about minding his own business, but Hollis managed to trick him into saying just enough to get a story. I’ll give you odds there won’t be any more interviews, or even statements, by Sheriff Logan Fielder to Simon Sezz or anyone else.”
Gwyn speared a cherry tomato. “That’s a relief.”
“Not necessarily,” Thorny corrected her.
“But—”
“It means Fielder is likely to be more reluctant than ever to give out information,” Thorny told her. “Makes my job harder.”
Gwyn remembered Jed’s reaction to the article—that he had clear proof now that Fielder was out to get him.
“But he has to tell you what evidence he has, doesn’t he?” Jed asked.
After swallowing, Thorny responded. “There are several layers of information in any case. The sheriff knows what he must give me, but there’s always plenty more he’s under no obligation to divulge. He has to pass on evidence he’s uncovered, but he doesn’t have to share his interpretation of it. Lawmen and D.A.’s often do that to get a feel for how the defense will use the information. The same goes for speculation that has no concrete basis in fact.”
“It sounds like a game of bluff,” Jed commented, none too happily.
Thorny took a generous slug of his tea and rested back against the wrought-iron chair. There was a hint of amusement in the curve of his lips, but seriousness underlay it.
“Jed, you deal in real estate. Do you always tell a prospective buyer everything you know about a piece of property? And don’t you mention speculation and rumor that could potentially increase the future value of the property in question?”
“I don’t withhold critical information,” Jed objected. “And I don’t lie.”
“Neither will Fielder or the D.A.’s office,” Thorny responded evenly. “But as a result of Hollis’s insinuating himself into the situation, they’re not going to give us the details they might have otherwise.”
“There is one major difference,” Jed noted. “Real estate is free trade. Both parties go into it of their own free will and can withdraw at any time. Being accused of murder is not the same thing.”
“Agreed. The best we can hope for is that both sides play by the rules. I understand your dislike of the sheriff, Jed, and I have to admit it isn’t without some justification, but I think Logan Fielder will obey the law.”
Jed was about to say he didn’t find that a great consolation, when June saved him from making the cynical remark by moving in to clear their dishes and serve dessert.
“The main reason I came,” Thorndyke said halfway through his lime sherbet, “is to remind you not to say anything to Hollis or any other reporter. Unless you have total trust in the discretion of the person you’re talking to, keep your mouth shut about Frannie’s disappearance or the murder investigation.”
He looked at Gwyn. “That goes for both of you. I assure you, it won’t be easy. Hollis is an old tiger at this game. He’ll do anything and everything to get a rise out of you, including bribe your friends for statements. Your best defense against his kind of guttersnipe is to utter absolutely nothing beyond ‘no comment’ and use even that statement sparingly.”
Jed took a mighty breath and expelled it harshly, frustration as strong as anger in his reaction. They wrapped up their lunch talking about other things, including the Anglers’ Ball and the success of Gwyn’s horses with the children.
“You always were good with kids,” Thorny told her.
It could have been his imagination, but Jed thought he heard regret in the apparently casual statement, as if he were mildly chastising her for not being married and settled down with a family of her own.
Jed and Gwyn turned back to the wide front door after seeing Thorny’s car down the drive to the public road. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” She glanced up at him, realizing it wasn’t a casual question.
“You said you broke off relations with your family, w
ith the high-profile Washington set. So, how come you’ve kept in contact with Thorndyke?”
His hand went to the small of her back as he pushed the door open and allowed her to precede him into the mansion.
“Fair question.” Without thinking, she turned automatically down the narrow corridor to the library. They were both comfortable there.
“I told you about my engagement.” She leaned on the arm of the couch, her hands folded under her breasts. The stance should have been off-putting. Instead, it only made him more aware of the feel of her under his hand the evening before.
“When I announced that I was calling off the wedding,” she continued, “only two people stood up for me. Clarice Quincy, my roommate from college, and Dexter Thorndyke. He and my father go back a long way. They went to law school and passed the bar together and formed a partnership until Dad got a foothold in politics. When Thorny sided with me and opposed my parents in the matter of my marriage, however, they severed their ties with him, too.”
So her rebellion had cost her a family and destroyed a friendship. All his life he’d wanted a family, and here Gwyn had thrown one away.
“Do you miss them—your parents and old friends?”
“I miss the idea of them. It would have been nice to have a mom and dad to go home to once in a while, to call on the phone on Sundays and holidays, friends I could drop by and see. But that life never existed for me, Jed, so I guess I really haven’t lost anything.”
She pushed away from the couch and walked toward the cold fireplace. It needed a big spray of flowers with a grow lamp on it. Yellow mums or maybe white ones with pink centers.
“I have a mother who was never a mommy. We never baked brownies. She never dressed me up for Halloween to go trick or treating. My father wasn’t a daddy. He didn’t carry me on his shoulders or take me to the circus. The three of us never went on a picnic or flew kites.” It all sounded so pitiful, but he’d asked for the truth. She had been pitiful. She wouldn’t be again. “So there’s no one to miss.”