by Lisa Turner
Billy changed the subject. “How’s Mr. Lee doing?”
Blue lifted his chin toward the house. “He’s resting, so I haven’t spoken with him. It’s just as well. I’m afraid I might break down over the sad news. The Parkinson’s has taken so much from that man. Now this.”
“Can he get around?” Billy asked.
“On his good days. Mz. Rosalyn hired a nurse and a housekeeper. Odette cooks for him seven days a week. We inspect the property and visit the barn and kennels when he feels up to it.”
Blue smiled. “My dad used to run Mr. Lee’s bird dogs. They campaigned three dogs, traveling the bird dog circuit all over the South and Northeast. They took me with them to some of the field trials. Two of his dogs were national champions. Nowadays, it’s a minimum of fifty grand to take a dog to the national level.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t my great grand pappy spin in his grave knowing his blood was back working on a plantation.”
They walked to a curved concrete bench to sit beneath the massive oak at the front of the house. A crow glided out of the sky and landed on a limb above them. “Guess we’d better get to it,” Billy said. “What can you tell me about Caroline?”
“She came most weekends. If Mr. Lee had a doctor’s appointment during the week, she’d carry him to it. They were real close.”
He nodded, thinking of the portrait of Caroline and her father hanging in the bedroom.
“She wanted Mr. Lee to be at the wedding,” Blue said, “but he was off his feet on Monday and had to go to bed early. I was leaving the next morning at five, so she decided to go ahead with the ceremony. She asked Odette to make a big wedding breakfast and was planning to tell Mr. Lee the next morning.”
“Why the rush?”
“I can’t say. She was in one of her high moods when we talked.”
“You think the marriage was her idea or was she pushed into it?”
Blue shrugged. “I don’t know. She sounded mighty happy.”
“And then she didn’t show up.”
“No. She didn’t call and didn’t answer her phone. I waited at the chapel till midnight, mad as hell that she’d left me hanging.” He stroked his thumb down his jawline. “I should’ve known something was wrong. I should’ve done something.”
A second crow landed on the limb beside the first and began to caw. Blue picked up a rock and threw it at them. “Damned crows. They’re listening. Those birds understand more than is natural.” He shook his head and looked down at his hands.
“There’s nothing you could’ve done for Caroline.”
“You know the bastard who did this?” Blue asked.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“The doctor?”
“He’s on the list.”
“That’s where I’d start.” Blue ran his hands down his thighs and stood. “Mr. Lee’s sister Gracie Ella Adams is here. That’s her station wagon parked next to the house.” He gestured toward an older green Mercedes. “She and Caroline were real close. They talked on the phone a couple of times a week.”
Billy remembered Gracie Ella Adams although it had been fifteen years since he’d seen her. She was a tall woman with capable hands and a perpetually tanned face from showing her horses in the summer and fox hunting in the winter. During fox hunting season, she stopped at the diner on Saturday mornings and ordered egg and cheese sandwiches to go. He’d always admired Mrs. Adams. Felt he could trust her.
“Odette said she found her sitting in the rocker in the guesthouse, cold and exhausted, her boots covered in mud,” Blue said. “She goes to Arkansas a couple of times a week to walk the rice fields where her son disappeared. She must’ve driven straight here. Odette built a fire and fed her lunch.”
“Does she know Caroline’s been murdered?”
“I can’t say, but I thought you’d want to talk with her. I spoke with her through the door, told her Billy Able from the diner was on his way down. She didn’t answer, but I’m sure she’ll remember you.”
They started walking toward a tiny cabin secluded behind a pecan grove some distance from the big house. Billy knew about the cabin, but he’d never been inside.
“You need to know she hasn’t been the same since she lost her son,” Blue said. “She’s been hospitalized. They keep her on meds. She gets things real confused.”
After housing field workers for more than a century the cabin stood abandoned for years. He heard the Lees had renovated it as a guesthouse and retreat.
He thought about the pain endured in that place. So much history had to be glossed over for everyone to live together.
Before knocking, he stood at the door thinking through what he wanted to say. He wouldn’t offer his condolences. She might not know her niece was dead. If she did know, she might not be handling it well. He’d keep in mind Blue’s warning that she gets things confused, but if she had talked to Caroline in the last few days, he wanted to know what was said.
He took a breath and knocked. “Mrs. Adams, it’s Billy Able. May I come in?”
He heard the lock turn and waited for her to open the door. Several seconds passed. “Mrs. Adams?” He opened the door and stuck his head in. She’d gone back to the rocking chair that she had pulled up next to the bed.
He barely recognized her face, now tight and shiny with the bloat of powerful medication. Her shoulders were hunched forward, her erect posture gone. Her jaw jutted like that of a crone twenty years older. She had on a field coat, the toes of her muddy boots sticking out from under a long dress.
He stepped into the cabin and glanced around. Shiplap covered the walls, the wide boards oiled dark with age and wood smoke. The floor of the sleeping loft had been removed to expose rafters and give the room height. Skylights flooded the space with light to make up for the two small windows in the front wall. A rough stone fireplace stood at one end of the room and a queen-sized bed at the other. A lean-to had been added to accommodate a sink, toilet, and tub.
Blue had set out candles, fruit, bottles of wine, and crystal glasses for Caroline’s wedding night. Orchids, violets, and bird of paradise from Airlee’s hothouses overflowed the mantel. The room was chilly. The fire Odette built earlier had burned down to embers. He imagined Caroline sweeping through the door in her beautiful dress, anticipating her wedding night, but to him, a honeymoon night in this place was a terrible contradiction.
He took a seat at the foot of the bed next to the rocker, the mattress sagging under his weight. Gracie Ella began to rock, not looking at him. She kneaded a lump of blue wool in her lap.
He was figuring where to start when she spoke up.
“Yes, I remember you. You’re Jackson Able’s son. Your mother passed away, and you went to live with your uncle.” She shook her head. “You were such a quiet boy.”
His mother had died in a car accident, leaving town. Leaving him. He’d moved in with his uncle at age twelve and started helping out at the diner. Mrs. Adams had gone out of her way to ask him how he was doing in school or if he planned to play baseball in the summer. He’d felt terribly alone in those days. The attention she paid him had meant a lot.
“I saw your mother socially before she moved to Pontotoc.” She frowned. “I didn’t like her. No, that’s not right. I liked your mother well enough, but I don’t trust women who drink in secret. She should’ve taken better care of herself and you.”
He remembered wishing at the time that his mother had been stronger, more like Mrs. Adams. He didn’t want to think about that now, so he changed the subject.
“It’s good to see you,” he said. “It’s been a long time since you came to the diner. Your nieces used to come too, Caroline and Zelda.”
She gave him a small smile. “Caroline has a good mind. I knew she’d do well. Zelda went into the arts. No one told her she doesn’t have the talent for it. Saunders will look after her.”
From the way she spoke about Caroline, he had to think she didn’t know about the murder. He’d have to be careful.
�
��Have you talked to Caroline recently?” he asked.
She stopped rocking. A shudder went through her. She tugged at the collar on her coat. “Are you cold, son?”
“No, ma’am, I’m fine.”
Her head dropped forward and she began to rock. “Caroline told me she was cold.”
She spoke so quietly, he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. “Caroline said she was cold? When?”
Her head came up. She frowned again.
“What else did she say?” he asked.
Her gaze wandered the walls. “You may remember my son Finn. He used to come to the diner with his cousins. A smart boy. Always so curious. You remind me of him.”
Her fingers began to loop in the air above the wool in her lap as if she was holding needles and knitting. The bones of her hands were visible, the flesh sagging away from her wrists.
Her eyes softened. “Caroline wanted her wedding to be a surprise. The baby, too.”
Baby? “Was Caroline expecting?”
Gracie Ella stopped rocking, her head cocked as if listening for someone. “Where is that girl? She should be here by now.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Adams. Can you tell me anything she said?”
She dropped her hands to her lap, perturbed. “Run on now, Finn. I can’t pay attention to my knitting while you’re talking to me.”
Chapter 18
The only vacancy in the Lee Law Firm’s parking lot was a low spot in the back corner swamped by a pool of rain. Frankie parked and grabbed her satchel, opened her car door, and looked down at green and brown walnuts bobbing in the standing water. Good thing she bought shoes off the half-price rack at discount stores. The department’s clothing allowance covered only a third of what she ruined while on the job.
She’d noticed the black wreath hanging on the firm’s front door, the reason every parking space in both lots had been taken—people stopping in to offer their condolences. She was certain the Lees would have a register at the front door for visitors to sign and a silver tray for those who wished to drop off calling cards.
Across the parking lot, she saw the office’s back entrance door that opened into a glassed-in sun porch, an obvious addition to the original house. A slender young woman, Highsmith’s assistant, stood as Frankie walked in. Her desk sat next to a doorway that opened into the main building. Piled at the far end of the porch were boxes, a sofa wrapped in protective plastic, and file cabinets.
“I’m Rachel Noel. You must be Detective Malone.” She was dressed professionally, in a navy sheath dress and a cashmere cardigan with her strawberry blond hair swept up in a French twist.
The young woman waved a dismissive hand at the makeshift office. “We’re camped here while the offices for Mr. Highsmith’s new litigation department are being remodeled.”
Frankie set down her satchel, feeling awkward dressed in soggy shoes and a polyester blend jacket. “I see. The firm is broadening their services.”
Rachel smoothed her hair. “Our clients call the Lees when their kids get in a scrape with the law or they’re being sued. You know, criminal matters. Mr. Highsmith has joined us to take care of those problems.” Her hand moved down to her cheek. “But you’re here about Caroline. How may I help you?”
“By having Mr. Highsmith call us right away. He can reach us at any of these numbers.” She handed over a card. The assistant’s lips compressed.
“Is there a problem?” Frankie asked.
“I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Highsmith. This was a scheduled leave, so it’s not a surprise he’s out of touch, just bad timing.”
“When was his last contact?”
“Monday evening. He left some instructions on voicemail.”
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
“Not really. He’s taken personal time. I’m sure he has loose ends to tie up from his move from Chicago.”
“Or he’s someplace with poor cell service,” Frankie said. Or … now there’s a twist. Sharma would detest the person who’d encouraged Caroline to file a protective order. What if the doctor had killed both Caroline and Highsmith?
“Have you called his home?” she asked.
Rachel looked affronted. “Of course. I reached the dog sitter. She said everything’s fine.” She pasted on a professional smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Mr. Highsmith mentioned recently that he was having problems with his mobile.” She moved behind her desk. “I’ll send the text with your request right away.”
Frankie wasn’t ready to let it go at that. “Did Mr. Highsmith ever speak with or meet Dr. Sharma?”
“Not that I know of.”
She thought a moment. Sharma had broken into Caroline’s house searching for a rival. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn that Sharma had been following Caroline. “Did Caroline and your boss ever go out, like for drinks or dinner?”
“I don’t believe so. They met several times to discuss Dr. Sharma’s harassment. After one meeting, Robert—I mean Mr. Highsmith—told me she was under a lot of pressure. He was doing everything he could to calm her down.”
“If you don’t reach him today, please let me know. Is the information complete in the file you sent over?”
“That’s everything.” She frowned. “You don’t think something’s happened to Mr. Highsmith, do you?”
“No. I’m sure your boss is just taking a much needed break.”
Voices of visitors in the main reception area carried down the hall. Frankie could see Rosalyn at the front door speaking with a woman using a walker.
“That’s quite a crowd,” she said.
“The Lees know everyone in town. Caroline was a favorite.”
The woman with the walker patted Rosalyn’s hand. “I don’t need to speak with Mrs. Lee, but you should let her know I’m here.”
To avoid drawing attention, Frankie took the back stairs to Caroline’s office. She didn’t want to add to the staff’s tension. There was enough emotional turmoil in the building.
She stopped at the assistant’s desk outside of Caroline’s office and identified herself. They spoke for a while, the woman answering several questions. She let Frankie into the office, a sunny space with modern furnishings and a wall of windows looking out on a garden. A bright abstract in mixed media and signed by Caroline hung over the credenza. On a table beside the sofa stood a framed photo of Caroline in cap and gown, her father beside her smiling. They had posed in front of a stone archway Frankie recognized as the entrance to the chapel at Rhodes College. Her desktop was completely clear except for a stack of hardcover titles on politics and the Supreme Court. The tidy desktop was no surprise considering the compulsive neatness Caroline had exhibited at home.
Frankie laid out her Nikon and evidence bags, snapped on gloves, and began examining the contents of the credenza and desk drawers. Nothing of interest there except a stack of thick stock envelopes addressed to clients. The assistant had mentioned Caroline’s preference for the personal touch of handwritten notes. Frankie opened them all and found nothing of interest.
Next she dug through the wastebasket and discovered an interoffice memo scrunched into a ball so tight it took effort to smooth it out.
From: R. Lee
To: C. Lee
Subject: Yancy III probate
Chester Yancy III has called to my attention your mishandling of the probate of his father’s will: late filing of a motion, unprepared for a hearing, having to request another continuance. In thirty-five years, the Yancy family has never questioned our advice or our fees. Now we’re at risk of being sued or reported to the Bar. Get your head in the game, little girl, or there will be consequences.
Harsh words from mother to daughter. Rosalyn was tough. Frankie photographed the note and bagged it, probably not something that would figure into the investigation, but Billy should see it.
She made her way around the perimeter of the room inspecting books and poking under cushions on the sofa and chairs. Her experience in Key West had taught her that important
clues could hide in the strangest places.
Finally, she went to the built-in filing cabinets with six horizontal drawers and pulled on the top one, expecting to feel the weight of files as it glided forward. Instead the drawer rattled open. All the drawers were empty. She knew about Billy’s showdown with Rosalyn over the client files. Obviously, Rosalyn had removed them. They could get a warrant if the investigation went in that direction, but they would never know what else she had removed or destroyed.
She took a seat at the desk and pulled the stack of books toward her. The top three had sticky notes with Caroline’s comments scattered throughout. In the fourth book, Bob Woodward’s The Brethren: Inside the Supreme Court, she found a folded page torn from a legal pad with notes in Caroline’s handwriting. What appeared to be a draft of a letter began:
Dearest Raj,
I wish to extend a heartfelt apology for my role in our breakup. We’ve both made mistakes. I remember the days when love and admiration were the gifts we offered each other. Where do we go from here?
The next three paragraphs had corrections and entire passages marked out with notes made in the margins. Frankie photographed the page and stepped out to ask the assistant if Caroline had mailed a letter to Dr. Sharma recently. The assistant said nothing had gone out since the breakup, but that Caroline sometimes dropped personal mail by the post office for the five o’clock pickup.
Frankie went back to sit at the desk and think. Caroline had been struggling for the right words. Was this a draft for an apology letter or a confession of some kind? Most important, had she written the letter and mailed it to Sharma?
Frankie was considering the ramifications when Martin walked in the office, his slim cut Italian suit and gray silk tie an appropriate choice for the wake downstairs. He took the chair by the window and crossed one leg over the other, his hand resting on his knee. She noticed his fingers were curling into the fabric of his slacks and releasing like cat claws.
“Detective Malone, unless you have a warrant you shouldn’t be here,” he said.