“I can’t stand by and—”
“I know, I’m with ya. But things just got harder. You know who told the chief they saw Billy last night?”
My back straightened. “Do you?”
“Yup. Becky Myers.”
The name shot through me. “Becky! She was at the shower. Left not long before I did.”
“Yup. She lives on Brewer ’bout a block and a half up from where Clara was killed.”
“How you’d hear this?”
“Oh, I got my ways. Made a few phone calls to friends who live on Brewer. And when I heard it was Becky, I called her directly. Said I was just tryin’ to watch out for you. Which is true.”
I stared out the windshield, stunned. Becky was a good friend of Dora Crenshaw, Clara’s mother. And about the same age. Becky was a kind woman who’d never say anything bad about anybody. She wouldn’t have told the police anything less than the truth.
“And she’s sure it was Billy?”
“Absolutely positive. Becky told me she pulled into her driveway and nearly hit him as he was hurryin’ down the street. He looked right at her, in her headlights, then kept on goin’. This was about fifteen minutes before you found Clara.”
This couldn’t be. Around 9:20 Billy was heading straight for the place where Clara was killed? I pictured the look on Cheryl King’s face as she’d insisted her son hadn’t left the house. Had she been in her bedroom, watching TV? Maybe she couldn’t really be sure …
“Don’t look too good for Billy, does it,” Pete said.
“No.” Scenes from my own interrogation years ago flashed through my head. How much harder to prove your innocence when you were at the place of the crime. At this point I could only hope Billy told Chief Melcher everything. Why he was on Brewer that night. Where he’d come from and where he was going.
“Thing is, Del-Belle, fifteen minutes ahead of you puts Billy at the right place at the right time.”
My stomach felt sick. “I know.”
“Still don’t believe he did it. I’m just sayin’ it’s real bad timin’. And Chief Melcher’s gunnin’ for a suspect.”
As were Clara’s parents, no doubt. All too well I remembered the consuming fire of needing to know who’d killed my mother. “I need to convince the Crenshaws it wasn’t Billy. If they really think that, they’ll put all the more pressure on Melcher.”
“Might be a hard thing to do, in the midst of tryin’ to comfort ’em. You could come across as tryin’ to defend their enemy.”
Pete was right. The only thing a grieving family had left was to pursue justice for the one they’d lost.
“Besides which, you’ll dig yourself in deeper with Melcher.”
If Pete only knew how much that terrified me. “Well, let me see how it goes. I do need to visit them.”
“Okay, see you back at the house.”
“You’re not there now?”
“Heavens no, girl. I’ve hit the streets. I got to find out who woulda wanted Clara dead.”
I managed a smile. “Be careful.”
“You too.”
After ending the call, I sat a moment longer, trying to collect my thoughts. And praying for guidance.
As if God had any reason to grant anything I requested.
Heavy-hearted, I pulled back into the street and headed for the Crenshaws. They lived on the outskirts of town in a two-story brick house. Dora had been a seamstress all her life, using a large back room in the house as her working area. Lately she’d been busy making Clara’s wedding dress and all the bridesmaids’ dresses. One of them was for me.
Pain stuck a knife in me and turned it.
It hit me then—half of Clara’s wedding gifts were still at the church. They’d need to be cleaned out. And taken … where?
Numerous cars lined the curb in front of Dora’s and Dave’s house. I recognized Clara’s fiancé’s blue Honda. Jerald had mostly likely been with the Crenshaws all day. In front of his car sat a beige Ford SUV. His parents’.
I walked up the porch steps and knocked softly on the door. Jerald’s mother answered.
“Hi, Delanie.” Marie’s face was drawn. “Please come in, I know they’ll want to see you.”
I stepped inside the hardwood foyer. The smell of baked chicken and rolls filled the air. Too late I realized I should have brought something. What was I thinking?
“I’m so sorry to be empty-handed. I just haven’t …”
“Don’t worry about it. They’ve got more than they can handle already.” Marie headed toward the combination kitchen and family room at the back of the house. She gestured for me to follow.
I stepped into the room, feeling the heaviness in the air. Dave sat on a couch near Jerald. Jerald’s father, Hank, sat opposite them in a gray armchair. Dora was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, talking quietly with Jerald’s older sister, Paula. Dora’s sister, Gretchen, was also there, as well as their mother, Evy May. All of these women had been at the shower the previous evening. From joy to despair in less than twenty-four hours.
This had to be a dream. Maybe even now I would wake up …
The men rose to greet me. I hugged them and all the women, murmuring how sorry I was, how enraged and stunned. As I looked into their faces, the weight in my heart grew heavier. Jerald’s eyes were hollow, like those of an old man. The make-up on Evy May’s lined face was tracked with tears. Nothing I could say or do would take away the grief in this house.
They graciously offered me food. Drink. All I could handle was water.
Dora’s green eyes were red-rimmed, her typical graceful way of moving now rigid. She held herself like a statue threatening to crack. “We have plenty to eat, as you can see, and more in the oven for lunch.” She waved a hand at the casseroles and salads lining the counter. “I’ve just been trying to put it all away. People have been so kind …” Her face crumpled. She turned away. Gretchen wrapped her in a hug.
Fresh anger simmered within me. The waste of it. Of a precious life, so ready to be lived. Clara would never be married. Never have children. Never grow into the mature, incredible woman that she would have become. And for what? Who would do this?
Dora pulled away from her sister and wiped her eyes. She turned a circle in her kitchen, as if not knowing what direction to take next. “I have to get all this food put away.”
Evy May laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “We’ll do it, Dora.”
“No.” Dora’s voice sharpened. “I have to keep busy. I have to do … something.” She yanked open the refrigerator door and started shoving its contents around. Then, just like that, she slammed it shut and turned to me. “What did you see last night? I have to know.”
“I want to hear, too.” Dave Crenshaw sounded so weary, as if he’d walked a thousand miles. His expression bore the intaglio of anguish. Gazing at him, I remembered my own father, mourning his wife. “Just a little while ago we heard Chief Melcher took Billy King down to the station,” Dave said. “We’ve been hearing about Billy all morning. He was there, right there when Clara was …” He swallowed hard. “Did you see him, Delanie?
Something inside me snapped. I pressed a hand against my mouth. No, no, I could not cry now. These people deserved answers, not to watch me break down. But I couldn’t stop the tears, and once they started, they flowed for so many people. For Clara and her family. For Billy. For myself accused of murder those years ago, and my father. For my mom.
“I’m so sorry.” The words sputtered from me.
“It’s okay.” Gretchen handed me a tissue.
They all watched as I pulled myself together, which took too long. I could feel their aching need to know who took their Clara. To see justice done.
“If you interfere anymore in this investigation, I will haul you off to jail.”
But Clara’s family had asked what I’d seen. How could I not tell them the truth?
I balled the tissue in a fist. “I saw a man. But it wasn’t
Billy.”
The questions came fast. “How do you know?” “Who was it, then?” “What was he doing?”
My mouth opened, and out came the answers. All of them. Including how Mr. Grayson and I had measured the bush.
Dora held on to the kitchen counter, drinking in my every word. “But I heard that Becky insists she saw Billy.”
“I’m sure she did. But it doesn’t mean he was involved in this.”
Dave shook his head. “I don’t know. That boy … He’s had a crush on Clara for a long time.”
“And I never did anything about it.” Jerald thrust a hand in his hair.
Evy May patted his shoulder. “How could you know, he always seemed so harmless.”
“But I should have seen it. I should have known …”
My throat tightened. Had they not heard a thing I said?
“Well, we’ll just see what Billy King was doing on that street.” Dora’s voice hardened. “Right now I’m not believing in coincidence.”
The phone rang. Dave answered it. All eyes followed him, waiting to hear his end of the conversation. Would it be more news? Or simply another friend, expressing sorrow.
More news, it was. And of the worst kind. Chief Melcher was on the line, wanting the Crenshaw family to be the first to know. Billy King had been arrested for Clara’s murder.
October 1995
Chapter 13
After a lifetime Laura’s first day of trial arrived.
She’d been told it might last a week. Maybe more. She was being tried before a judge, not a jury, since she was a juvenile. This was good news and bad news, Devlon said. The good news was, they only had to convince one person of her innocence—the judge. The bad news? All the prosecution had to convince was that same person.
Judge George Myers was his name. He looked skinny, even with a big robe on. Had a long, angular face and thin lips. Laura didn’t like him from the start. He was part of the System—which hadn’t worked too well for her so far.
Laura got to dress in her own clothes. How cool it had been to put them on—until she noticed how tight her pants were. Sitting in juvey all day, eating starchy foods had made her fat and sluggish. When she got back home, she’d start an exercise routine. Eat fruits and vegetables and fish.
On the drive to the courthouse she pressed her face to the window, drinking in sights of the world. All those people in cars, going wherever they wanted. Did they have any idea how wonderful that was?
When she’d gone into juvey it was spring. Now it was fall. Still plenty warm in the Bay Area. The sun was shining, so glorious. She loved the feel of it on her face.
She’d been praying a lot lately, begging God to let her be acquitted. For months she hadn’t prayed. But now there was something to hope for. God could still make this right.
In the courtroom she sat down at a polished dark wood table with her attorney. She’d been warned her trial would be open to the public. Apparently a lot of juvenile trials in California weren’t, but her charge was a felony. So somebody in the System had decided people could come to gawk.
Laura’s dad would be in the courtroom soon. Devlon had explained that her dad would be the first to testify—so afterwards, as her parent, he could sit and watch the trial. Laura hadn’t seen him since that visit four weeks ago. Now she’d have to watch him on the stand, testifying for the prosecution. Oh, yeah, she’d heard it all from her attorney. How the prosecutor would ask her dad about the fights she’d had with her mother. No doubt by now her dad didn’t think Laura might be guilty—he knew it. Just think how Miss Cop Girlfriend had managed to cement that idea in his mind.
Somehow when Laura went home, they’d have to work this out. Once she was acquitted, her dad would have to see that she didn’t do this. Could never have done such a thing. The police had quit looking for any other suspect the moment they set their eyes on Laura. And she hadn’t thought of one person who might be guilty, even though she’d had many long days to think about little else.
Devlon, on the other hand, had come up with a few startling possibilities. It was clear to both of them the real culprit had wanted two things: her mom dead and Laura found guilty for it. Because Laura had obviously been framed. It had taken weeks for that to sink through her head. That the evidence hadn’t just happened to point to her. It had been planted, perfectly planned to do that.
The realization had cost Laura many a night’s sleep. Who would do such a thing? Why?
Her dad had been at work but could have hired someone to do the job, Devlon had offered. Laura rejected that idea. He wouldn’t have killed his wife, and he certainly wouldn’t have framed his daughter for it. That was beyond all comprehension.
Laura knew only two things as she sat at the defense table, getting a feel for the room. First, Devlon would prove she hadn’t killed her mom. Second, once she was freed, Laura would not stop looking for the real murderer until he was found, even if it took years. She would see justice done for this crime. Her mother deserved no less.
She looked over her shoulder and spotted her Aunt Nicky. The woman nodded at her. Laura gave her a small smile. Was she like Laura’s dad now, believing Laura was guilty? Other neighbors and friends of her mom were also there. And a couple people Laura didn’t know, scribbling on notepads.
“Who are they?” Laura asked Devlon.
“Reporters.”
Reporters? She stared at them, wide-eyed. Why would they be here? Was her name being put in the newspapers? None of her friends had mentioned that. Did they just not want to tell her?
Laura hunched her shoulders. She didn’t want to be watched like a hawk. Written about. Especially in the first few days of the trial, when the prosecution called all their witnesses and tried to make her look as bad as possible.
“Look.” Devlon patted her arm. “They’ll be here when you get to testify, too. Don’t you want your own story out there?”
It was little comfort. She focused on the table, feeling the burn of eyes on her.
Court began. Laura’s breathing hitched. She’d dreamed about this for weeks. How she’d have to sit through the bad stuff. But then she’d get to tell her side. And even during the prosecution’s part, Devlon told her, he’d be questioning their witnesses. Trying to make their “ironclad evidence” look not quite so ironclad. He’d told her to be positive. He thought they had a really good chance of getting an acquittal. Especially with her testimony, which they’d practiced over and over. Devlon had said she’d be good on the stand.
Why wouldn’t she be “good?” She would just tell the truth.
The prosecutor, Larry Cantor, was different than the man she’d seen at her arraignment. This one was short and round—the exact opposite of the judge. He had white hair and a red face. Big jowls that shook when he talked.
Laura hated him.
Cantor called Laura’s dad to the stand. She tensed. Devlon patted her arm again.
Just before her dad swore to tell the truth, he shot her a glance. No smile. He’d lost weight. Looked way more fit. Younger. With a tan and new hair cut.
How dare he look all happy?
Almost like his life had never been so good. While she’d rotted away in a tiny cell. His life probably was great. Especially after what Devlon told Laura. Her father had inherited all of her mother’s money. The part that had supposed to go to her? All given to him. Since she’d supposedly killed her mother, the law said she couldn’t benefit from the inheritance. Something about a “clean hands doctrine.” Oh yeah, hers were so dirty. So now, even with an acquittal, she’d have to fight her own father to get her money back—not that she would. Besides, what if there wasn’t any left? What if he’d spent it all on his girlfriend?
Laura’s breathing went hard and shallow. But she was not going to let her father see how much he’d hurt her. She closed her eyes and forced the emotions down.
The prosecutor jumped right in with his questioning. As promised, he asked her
father about all the arguments between his wife and daughter. How Laura had acted. What she’d said. The more her dad talked, the worse she sounded. Laura hung her head. She hadn’t really been that bad to her mom, had she? Didn’t all teenage girls fight with their mothers?
Then Cantor asked about the last fight they’d had—starting two days before Laura’s mom was killed. Her dad testified that it was worse than the others. Laura had seemed madder than before. More “volatile.” And then there were the ill-fated words she’d sobbed into her father’s chest out on the lawn after her mom was killed. “I didn’t mean it.”
Cantor repeated the words for effect. “What did she mean by that?”
“Objection, calls for speculation.” Devlon’s voice sounded impatient, as if Cantor knew he couldn’t get away with such a question.
The judge didn’t need to think about it. “Sustained.”
Laura kept her eyes on her father. If he’d been allowed to answer, what would he have said? He wouldn’t look at her again—not so much as a glance. Her lungs began to burn. Did she hate him? Or love him? Or both? She wanted to scream at him for his betrayal. But she couldn’t lose him forever. Hadn’t she lost enough? Somehow she had to win her father back. She’d show him. And she’d forgive him for turning on her. He was still grieving, that was all. Not thinking clearly.
But a tiny voice inside Laura said, “Does he look like he’s grieving? After finding a girlfriend so fast?”
When Cantor was finally through with her father, Devlon rose to question him. A flicker of … something … passed across her father’s face.
“Tell me.” Devlon stood with hands clasped behind his back. “In all the arguments your daughter had with her mother, did she ever get violent?”
“No.” Her father shook his head.
“Ever hit her mother?”
“No.”
“Threaten her in any way?”
“No.”
“How about at school? Was Laura ever in trouble?”
“No.”
“Did she ever show any violent tendencies toward her friends?”
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