Suspicion of Vengeance

by Barbara Parker

  "Now, Bess, have some pity for the poor guy."

  She blew her husband a little kiss. "You're sweet. Wrong, but sweet." Her laugh sent the rocks rattling in her throat.

  Gail remembered that Gary had worked at the Stuart branch of a high-priced Palm Beach firm. "Did Amber use those exact words? They fired him?"

  "They fired him, they let him go, whatever. Next time I saw her she was going on and on about his new law practice, lah-de-dah.That girl could put on such an act." Bess Grigsby reached to tap her cigarette over the ceramic coconut ashtray. Wrinkles crisscrossed her brown forearm. "She's dead. I shouldn't talk that way."

  Anthony said, "Do you think she could have had a lover?"

  "I don't know. Gary kept her on a short leash. I could hear him out there in the garage. 'Where've you been? You're ten minutes late. Go change that skirt, it's too short.' If she was fooling around, she didn't do it here."

  "She wasn't that kind of girl," Art said.

  Bess rolled her eyes and blew smoke toward the ceiling. It drifted past a mobile of painted tropical birds.

  "Did you tell this to the police?" Anthony asked.

  "What's to tell? That they acted like married people?" She nudged her husband's thigh with her toe and laughed.

  Gail asked, "What was Gary like?"

  Art Grigsby answered. "He kept pretty much to himself Never did come over to chew the fat or get neighborly, you know, like ask how the game went or to borrow a tool or something. But I liked him okay."

  "Oh, please. He was a sanctimonious twerp. Gary was the kind of guy who'd walk across the yard to pick up a leaf and accuse you of dropping it. He kept firing the yard men because they couldn't edge straight enough for him. The place looks like shit now, but when they lived there, you couldn't find a speck of dust. Amber showed me the pantry. Gary wanted all the canned goods lined up like soldiers exactly half an inch from the front of the shelf, and don't let me see the applesauce next to the peas. Applesauce goes with the fruit."

  Art Grigsby chuckled. "Hell to pay around here if I tried to tell Bess where to put the applesauce. Hoo boy."

  "Did it ever occur to you," Anthony asked, "that her husband might have killed her? When you heard she was dead, what did you think?"

  The Grigsbys looked at each other across the table. Art said, "Bess and I had a few go-arounds about that. I won five dollars off her when they got the guy that did it."

  His wife held her hand out and motioned for him to give.

  "Nope. It's not over yet. Anyhow, Gary was at work." His wife exhaled smoke to the side. "He could've hired a hit man."

  "Bess watches too much TV."

  Gail sent a quick glance toward Anthony, then said, "Mrs. Grigsby, do you think that your neighbor, Dorothy Chastain, could have been mistaken?"

  "Ha! She's never wrong about anything, is she, Art? I hired a girl to come in to cook dinner for him when I had to be out of town visiting my sister, and Dotty spread it around that Art had a girlfriend. I let her have it. Bitch."

  "Now, honey. Dotty didn't mean anything."

  Anthony made a slight shrug. Nothing more could be learned here. Gail stood up. "We should be going. Thank you so much for your time."

  At the front door, Art Grigsby shook their hands. "Come back and see us. We like company."

  Anthony said, "It was a pleasure to meet you."

  Bess Grigsby gave him a long, sideways look. "Love your accent. Where are you from, by the way? If you don't mind my inquiring."

  He made a polite smile. "Cuba."

  She snapped her fingers. "I knew it. Cubano." Then another gravelly laugh. "Art and I went to Havana on our honeymoon. Cha-cha-cha." Arms overhead, she swiveled her hips.

  Her husband nodded. "I thought that fellow would've been executed by now. The wheels of justice grind slowly. It's a good thing for him, by golly, especially if you folks are right."

  They walked slowly to the car, Gail leading because Anthony had his eyes on Dorothy Chastain's house. He said, "Look. She's watching us. As soon as we leave, she will call the Grigsbys to find out who we are."

  Across the street, a woman stood at the living room curtains.

  Anthony leaned against the rear fender of his car and raised his foot to pick the sandspurs off his cuffs. "Let's talk to her. We won't have this opportunity again."

  "She won't call the Grigsbys, she'll call the sheriff."

  "I think not. Now that we have spoken to her neighbors, she is curious about us."

  Gail let out a breath. "Fine. You ask the questions, then."

  "Me? It's your case."

  She gave him a look. He smiled, the corners of his mouth going up, eyes hidden behind his dark glasses. She said, "You won't get through the door, but if you do, this was your idea."

  He got through the door. Both of them did. It took an apology for disturbing her and regrets for any prior misunderstanding. But this was a matter of utmost importance, a man's life in the balance, questions that only she could answer.

  Dorothy Chastain took them into her living room, where crocheted throws protected the brocade sofa, and silk flowers grew from every marble windowsill and mahogany side table. She smoothed her skirt under herself as she sat. She was taller than Gail had expected. Even at seventy, she was assured in her movements and deliberate in her speech. She was cautious but not fearful. That she offered them nothing to drink said clearly that she didn't want them to stay longer than the five minutes Anthony had promised her this would take.

  He sat forward on the sofa, hands loosely clasped. "For now, we are simply trying to gather the facts. We've read the police reports, of course, but they don't contain every detail. I hope you can help us."

  "It has been a rather long time," said Mrs. Chastain. Her hair had been gray in the photograph; now it was white. Her glasses bore curved reflections of the living room window.

  "If you would just tell us what you saw that day." Anthony beamed a look of concern toward the woman— brows lifted, lines across his forehead.

  Mrs. Chastain said she'd seen the young man coming around the hedge, waiting, looking over his shoulder, then going behind the house. She gave details of his clothing, his build, his hair. The time of day, the distances. Gail noticed how remarkably similar it all was to the words in the transcript. She had seen this happen in her civil trials. A story told over and over eventually becomes a memory of itself.

  Returning from the birth of a grandchild in Atlanta, Mrs. Chastain had found Detective Sergeant Ronald Kemp's card among her mail. "So I drove over to the sheriffs department the next morning, a Tuesday, and asked to speak with him. He came out and introduced himself and took me into the criminal investigations office. His desk was in a cubicle, with other cubicles in the same room."

  "Did you sit at his desk?" asked Anthony.

  "He took me into another room. Or that was later. I'm not sure. It's been so long. But I did pick out Mr. Clark's photograph."

  "Who else did you speak to?"

  "Oh, there were quite a few people."

  "Do you remember anyone specifically?"

  "Let's see. I met Sheriff Bryce, although he wasn't sheriff then."

  "He was Captain Bryce. Did you talk to him about the man you had seen?"

  If she had, Gail noted, the conversation was not anywhere in the police reports.

  "We didn't talk in depth. He was primarily speaking with Detective Kemp."

  "Was this before or after you viewed the photographs?"

  Mrs. Chastain gazed away, thinking. "I don't remember."

  "All right. Let's go back to the time that you were standing at your window. Did you see anyone else in the Dodsons' yard that morning?"

  "Anyone else? No."

  "Any cars in the driveway?"

  "I saw Gary leave at the usual time."

  "Did you see Amber's sister?"

  "Yes, that's right. What on earth was her name?"

  "Lacey Mayfield. Can you remember when you saw her and what she did?"
/>   "Let's see. It was after Gary left. And certainly before I saw Mr. Clark in the yard. I don't know exactly. She parked in the driveway. She got out, knocked on the door." Mrs. Chastain's eyes closed, and her glasses tilted upward. "She looked through the front window. She walked around to the side of the house. Then she came back, got into her car, and drove away."

  Anthony was silent awhile, leaning his forearms on his thighs, gazing past the silk flowers on the coffee table. "Did you tell Detective Kemp that you had seen Amber's sister?"

  "Why, you know, I don't think we ever discussed it."

  "Would you say that Lacey Mayfield walked into or across the same area where you saw the man in the denim jacket?"

  "Yes, approximately."

  Gail could see what Anthony was getting at. In the week that Mrs. Chastain had been out of town, she had confused the details of the two incidents.

  He said, "All right. Let's go to the time when you went to Detective Kemp's office and viewed the photographs. When you got there, what happened?"

  "Well, he took me to his desk, and we talked for a while. The younger detective was there too. What was his name?"

  "Tom Federsen?"

  "Yes. We talked, I can't recall what about, and then Captain Bryce came in, and we were introduced. After that, Detective Kemp took me into a conference room. I waited for quite a while. They brought me some coffee. Then I saw the photo display."

  "Who showed it to you? Detective Kemp?"

  She nodded.

  "Who else was there?"

  "He and Detective Federsen sat at the table with me, and Captain Bryce was standing to one side. Detective Kemp took a card out of a file. There were six photographs on the card. He said to take my time and tell him if I recognized any of them."

  "Were the men all similar in age and appearance?"

  "There were six young men, all of them white and clean shaven."

  "All with long hair?"

  "No, but Detective Kemp said that didn't matter because people's hairstyle can change. I studied the men very carefully. I didn't want to make any mistakes. My eyes kept going to photo number two."

  "How sure were you at this point? Fifty percent? Sixty?"

  "More like eighty. I said that I truly believed the second photo was the man I'd seen in the Dodsons' yard."

  "What did Detective Kemp say to you?"

  "He said I'd been very helpful to the investigation, and would I mind coming back to view a lineup? I said I'd do whatever I could to help. I felt so bad about Amber and her baby. What a terrible thing. My heart broke for Gary."

  "Yes, of course. To lose both of them." Anthony waited a few beats. "And you went to police headquarters again the next day, didn't you?"

  "That's right. Detective Kemp came and picked me up. That was when I saw Mr. Clark in person."

  "Where did you see him?"

  "They had a two-way mirror like on TV, and I looked through it. The lights were very bright. They stood in front of a wall with height measurements on it. A chill went right down my spine. It was him. Seeing him in person, I knew it was the same man."

  "You had no hesitation at all? You came into the room and immediately pointed him out?"

  "I took my time. They said not to rush. I said, 'It's number four.' 'Are you certain?' I said, "There is no doubt in my mind.' "

  "You initially described the man as medium height and weight with very long hair. Mr. Clark is six feet tall, and his hair was to his shoulders. Did you notice the difference when you saw him in person?"

  "The face was the same. I got a clear look at liim the morning of the murder, but it's difficult to judge height."

  "Did you ever think, even briefly, that the person you saw was a woman?"

  "A woman? Goodness, no. It was a man." Mrs. Chastain pushed herself out of her chair and walked toward the window. "Come here, Mr. Quintana, I'll show you where he was, and how he walked behind Amber's house."

  Gail followed them to the window, standing close enough to hear the conversation. Thin white curtains were drawn back, allowing a clear view of the street and the house on the other side.

  "Mr. Clark was over there by the stop sign, near the hedge. He looked around furtively, like this, you see? Then he walked toward the back of the house."

  "That was suspicious. Did you call Amber?"

  "No, I... I thought of calling her, but my friend came to pick me up just then, and I didn't have time."

  "You stood here for several minutes after the man walked out of your sight. That's what you said at the trial."

  Slowly, Mrs. Chastain replied, "Yes. That's true. I had time."

  "Was there a reason you didn't call her?"

  "I should have. I know I should have. I just—didn't want to be a bother. Amber had made it clear to me in no uncertain terms that she didn't appreciate intrusions."

  "Amber had accused you of ... meddling? Of being nosy? Spying on her?"

  "I never spied on her. I tried to be a good neighbor."

  "So you didn't call her. You must regret that decision now."

  Head bowed, Mrs. Chastain said, "Not a day goes by I don't think about it."

  "Yes, it would be painful, knowing that as you stood here, just as we stand here now, a stranger was breaking into her house. Stabbing her to death."

  "I can't tell you how awful I feel."

  "But you made sure that her killer was brought to justice. At least you did that for her. That's what you wanted to do, wasn't it? For Amber?"

  "Yes. I did." She put her fingers under her glasses to wipe away tears on her cheeks. "I just don't see why you think he could be innocent. I saw him."

  As Dorothy Chastain stood by her window and wept, Gail could imagine what a jury would have done, hearing this. They might not have been so convinced she was right. Maybe it hadn't been a man she'd seen going around the house, but a woman—Lacey Mayfield, dropping by to check on her sister. If she had seen a man at the corner, he could have been anyone. Mrs. Chastain went out of town for a week, and she forgot the details. The two events got mixed up in her mind. She felt so guilty about not calling Amber that she ID'd the first photo that looked plausible.

  But Anthony Quintana hadn't been asking the questions that day. It had been Walter Meadows, a court-appointed hack who overlooked the obvious, fumbled the cross-examination, and delivered his final argument half drunk. The jury had believed Mrs. Chastain. They voted to send Kenny Ray Clark to death row.

  Sunday evening

  This far up the coast the land pitched more abruptly into the ocean. The waves didn't curl gently as they did on Miami Beach; they boomed. The sea foam rushed toward the land, digging at the shore and leaving a low shelf of sand as it fell back. A cold front had moved through, turning the sky to lead and chilling the air. A gust of wind flapped the edges of Gail's jacket and spun her hair around her face. Not much daylight remained. They wanted to be together one more night, then drive back before dawn, in time for Gail to have breakfast with Karen.

  They walked north past an empty lifeguard stand, a sand-washed boulder, bits of driftwood. Gail took her hand out of Anthony's for a moment to pull her scarf closer. The wind cut through her sweater.

  "Are you cold?"

  "Yes, but it feels good. By July we'll be crying for this weather." She slid her arms under his jacket and around his waist. His muscles were tight and defined. "You feel good too."

  He kissed her. His lips were cool until he opened his mouth, and the heat flooded into her. She clung to him. There were a few people out walking, but she didn't care what they thought.

  He held her face. "We lasted the weekend together without a fight, did you notice? I think we could make it maybe thirty years, what do you think?"

  "Hmm. That's a long time."

  "True, but this is a pretty good start, no? Are you busy this week? We could get married."

  She laughed and shook her head.

  "When? Tell me."

  "I don't know."

  "Tell me a m
onth. May. June. September. Anything." The wind blew her hair into her eyes, and she brushed it away. "Where's my ring?"

  "I said I'll find it."

  "When you do, we'll talk." She took a step backward and skidded when the sand gave way.

  "Ay, cuidado." Anthony grabbed her hand and pulled her up the slope before the next wave could soak her feet. He locked his arms around her waist and pressed his hips tightly to hers. "You can't get away. You know this, don't you?"

  She made a show of shaking her head. "You don't own me."

  "Oh, yes. You are mine. You don't go anywhere without my permission."

  "In your dreams, buddy."

  "I want to hear you say it. ‘I am yours, Anthony. I can't live without you.' Come on, say it." His breath was hot in her ear. "Soy tuya, mi amor."

  "Oh, stop. You are so rotten, Anthony!"

  "Si, Anthony, papito, tú eres mi dueño, no puedo vivir sin tí." He nuzzled her neck, licking the skin under her ear.

  Gail noticed an older couple walking by, smiling. She gave Anthony a quick kiss. "All right, we'll get married—as soon as you find my ring and Kenny is out of prison. Deal?"

  He dropped his arms and looked skyward as if checking the heavy clouds for rain. "Do you not realize, señora, how long it could take to get him out of there? If he gets out of there."

  "Fine. Let me just get this motion filed and done with. That should be only a few more months. And what do you mean, If?" Anthony turned his head to look at her. Gail said, "Given what we've learned this weekend, I'm definitely optimistic. You aren't?"

  He shrugged. "You have something to work with. I am optimistic to that extent."

  She studied his face. He was serious. "We have a good case," she said.

  "If you subpoena Dorothy Chastain as a witness, and even if she says to the judge what she said to us today, it would be useless. The judge won't disregard the jury's prior decision to believe her. So all you have is Tina Hopwood. And maybe the snitch, if you can find him yourself, because your cousin is too much under the thumb of her father to help you."

  "Kenny is innocent."

  "Perhaps he is, but it doesn't matter. The burden of proof is reversed. Your client is guilty until proven innocent, not maybe he's innocent."