by V. M. Burns
CHAPTER 3
Nana Jo’s response when she saw Dawson’s face was loud and littered with old-fashioned words like floozy, harpy, tart, and shrew. When she calmed down, she mixed up a concoction with Aloe Vera gel, honey, vitamin E oil, and baking soda. Dawson looked like he had leprosy most of the day Sunday, and he had to fight off Snickers, who kept trying to lick off his mask, but Monday his face looked so much better, it was like night and day. The scars were still there. Only time would truly heal them, but the improvement was amazing.
“Mrs. Thomas, you’re a miracle worker.” Dawson kissed Nana Jo on the cheek.
“Well, you need about two more days before the scars will disappear completely.” Nana Jo stared at her handiwork. “But at least you don’t look as though you’ve been in a cat fight.”
“You never cease to amaze me,” I said after Dawson hurried off to campus.
Nana Jo and I sat at the breakfast bar and drank coffee.
“Where on earth did you learn to mix up your healing paste?”
Nana Jo smiled as she sipped her coffee. “I grew up on a farm. There was always some kind of accident that happened on a farm and most people were too poor to go riding off miles to a doctor. My grandmother used to be the local midwife and well…medicine woman. She mixed all kinds of things up in her kitchen and grew herbs for healing everything from the croup to rheumatic fever.”
“I never knew that.” I stared at my grandmother. I’d known this woman all my life and she was still able to surprise me.
Nana Jo shrugged. “I never thought it worth talking about. Most of those old remedies would be considered nothing more than old wives tales nowadays.”
“Scientists are discovering that a lot of those old remedies actually worked. I read an article recently that chicken soup really does help with a cold. Although scientists aren’t sure if there is some ingredient in the chicken soup itself or if it’s in the person’s mind. Whatever the reason, it works.”
We sat for a few moments and talked about poultices, plasters, and herbal teas. Then we went downstairs to the bookstore.
I had a lot of fears when I quit my job as an English teacher and opened the bookstore. Would I be able to handle things alone? Would I be able to make enough to support myself? Did people still read books? The answer to all of those questions was yes. Recently an old friend I hadn’t seen in over twenty years asked if I found working in a bookstore monotonous and boring? I didn’t even need to think before I answered. Market Street Mysteries was a lot of things, but monotonous and boring certainly wasn’t one of them. New people came in every day. Boxes of books arrived weekly. Some boxes included books from writers I’d read for years, which were like old friends. Familiar series from Victoria Thompson, Emily Brightwell, Jeanne Dams, and Martha Grimes sent a thrill of excitement through my body as I gazed at the bright covers and anticipated the joy of figuring out whodunit. There was also the joy of discovering new writers and wondering which ones would be added to my list of favorites. On those rare moments when the store was quiet, I sometimes went for a walk downtown North Harbor and stepped into shops owned by my neighbors. The bookstore had helped me through one of the worse times of my life, the death of my husband and best friend. I’d created a new life for myself with new friends and I hoped a new career as a writer, one day.
A few doors down from Market Street Mysteries, a new restaurant had opened. I stood in front of the window and stared at the menu taped on the door. I looked at my watch and realized it was after two and my stomach growled as I read the menu. I stepped inside and waited while my eyes adjusted to the darker interior.
“I’m glad you decided to come in.” A man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, cut close in the style worn by the military, soft brown eyes, and a big smile came out from behind the bar.
I must have looked puzzled because he motioned to the window. “I saw you outside.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. That’s why I put the menu up. I was hoping it would entice people to come inside.”
“Well it worked.” I laughed.
“How about a nice table by the window?”
I nodded and took a seat in the chair he held out for me.
“I have a lovely white wine from a local vineyard.”
“Oh no. Just water with lemon please.”
When he left, I looked around. The restaurant was clean and decorated with an urban edge. Exposed brick walls, stained concrete floors, and iron fixtures created a modern, hip atmosphere. Televisions lined the wall behind the bar. My waiter returned with a glass and a carafe of ice water with lemon.
He smiled as he placed the carafe of water on the table. “You own the mystery bookstore a few doors down, don’t you?”
I took a sip of water and nodded.
“I thought so. I’ve been trying to meet all of the other store owners around here. I’m Frank Patterson.”
He held out his hand and we shook.
“Samantha Washington, but you can call me Sam.”
“Sam, I’m pleased to meet you. How long have you been down here?”
I knew he was asking about how long my bookstore had been open. I looked at him and started to respond when my attention was caught by the picture on the television behind him.
Melody Hardwick’s picture filled the screen. Then it was replaced by pictures of a body covered by a blanket.
I gasped.
The words that scrolled across the bottom of the screen said Melody’s body had been found by early morning joggers. The police believed her death was the result of foul play. The picture that next filled the screen and nearly stopped my heart was of Dawson getting into the back of a police car.
* * * *
I didn’t remember the walk back to the bookstore. Nana Jo said I came in looking like a whirling dervish. I did remember marching into the South Harbor police station with Nana Jo. The brick two-story building was downtown and not far from my bookstore. North Harbor and South Harbor shared the same Lake Michigan coastline. The two towns were separated by the St. Thomas River that zigzagged through northern Indiana and southern Michigan for over two hundred miles and ended as it wrapped around North Harbor in a U and flowed into Lake Michigan.
The county police station and courthouse were attached and comprised a sprawling complex located on an area that sat on a small street in between North and South Harbor. Other than field trips as a child, I had only been to the complex as an adult when I was summoned for jury duty. My memory of the facility was prior to 9/11 and didn’t include security cameras and metal detectors that would rival those at the nearby River Bend airport.
I was so concerned about Dawson I didn’t remember a number of things from the time I saw his face on the television to the moment I walked into the police station. However, the memory that would live with me until my death would be when Nana Jo set off the metal detectors and we were instantly swarmed by police officers with guns drawn, all shouting for us to raise our hands and lay down on the floor. I remember the officer who pulled my wrists behind my back and the feel of the cold metal handcuffs as he placed them on my wrists. I looked over at my grandmother as she lay by my side, also cuffed and on the ground. My heart raced, and my blood pounded in my head. Yep. That was a memory that would stay with me forever.
Thankfully, my nephews hadn’t been idle after we left the bookstore. One of them must have called their mother. Never had I been so happy to see and hear my sister, Jenna, as I was at that moment.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Jenna said in the cold, steely voice I dreaded. “You have ten seconds to get my sister and grandmother off that floor or as God is my witness, I will sue every last one of you.” Jenna was a criminal defense attorney well-known by the police for her tough, no-nonsense attitude. I’d once heard that the district attorney’s office referred to her as a p
it bull and I had to say, as her sister, I thought it was pretty accurate.
“You know these women?” One of the officers stepped up from the pack.
“I just said that, didn’t I? And you have two seconds to lower your weapons,” Jenna said between clenched teeth. Then she turned her back to the officers and looked directly into the camera that was positioned over the door. “As you can see, these imbeciles have my sister and elderly grandmother handcuffed and laying on the cold concrete. Obviously they aren’t a threat, yet these officers continue to point their weapons.”
The officers put away their guns. One of the officers helped me to a standing position. It took two of them to help Nana Jo to stand.
“Your ‘elderly’ grandmother set off the metal detector.” He turned Nana Jo’s purse upside down and all the contents flew across the floor. His cocky smile turned into a sneer as he looked at Nana Jo’s iPad, phone, notebook, brush, holster, makeup, and about twenty other items lying on the ground. He kicked the empty holster and looked around the floor. But there was no weapon.
“Hey, Barney Fife, you break my iPad and you’re buying me another one,” Nana Jo said.
Jenna smiled and continued to address the camera. “No weapon, just an empty holster. And if she had brought her weapon, you’d find her permit to carry in her wallet.”
The smirk vanished as the officer looked at the wallet and found the permit. He returned the wallet and other belongings to Nana Jo’s purse and nodded to the officers holding us and the handcuffs were removed.
“I guess it was the iPad that set off the detector. Anyway, she should have announced she had a weapon and shown her carry permit immediately,” he said as though he were educating a child—bad mistake.
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time when I actually have a weapon. Of course, you would have known that if you nincompoops would have waited a minute before Wyatt Earp and the rest of the posse drew their guns like they were about to shoot it out at the O.K. Corral.” Nana Jo snatched her purse away from the officer.
* * * *
“I intend to subpoena the videotapes, so make sure nothing happens to them. If my sister or grandmother is injured due to this incident, you will be hearing from me.”
The officer looked as though he wanted to say something, but the look in Jenna’s eyes showed him silence would be his best defense.
“Now where have you taken Dawson Alexander?” Jenna’s question brought me back to the reason for our visit.
We were escorted to a reception area. We signed in and were then led to a small conference room. Jenna was allowed to go with the police officer, but Nana Jo and I were left to wait. I wanted to protest, but the look in Jenna’s eyes convinced me silence was my best defense as well.
Still flustered from the experience of being handcuffed and having guns pointed at me, I was glad for an opportunity to sit down. I hadn’t realized how nervous I was until I poured myself a cup of water from the pitcher on the table and my hands shook so badly I spilled most of it on the table.
“Are you okay?” Nana Jo grabbed some napkins from her purse and helped me clean up the water.
“No,” I answered truthfully. “But I will be. That was scary.”
Nana Jo smiled. “That was pretty nerve-wracking. I’m sorry, honey.”
“I’m glad you thought to leave your gun at home.”
She smiled. “I didn’t.”
“What?”
She shook her head. “Honestly, I was as surprised as that policeman. I must have left it at home, but it was an oversight. I was so upset about Dawson I didn’t even think about my peacemaker.”
“Lucky for us.” I smiled and leaned across the table. “I’m pleasantly surprised to know you have a permit to carry.”
Nana Jo grinned. “Well, we can thank Jenna for that too. To be honest, I’ve been carrying a gun for more years than you’ve been alive. But after everything that happened in the summer, Jenna convinced me I needed a permit.”
We waited for what felt like an eternity but was only twenty minutes. Jenna returned with Detective Bradley Pitt. Detective Pitt had been the lead investigator in the murder of Clayton Parker, a realtor who was found in the backyard of my building over the summer. He was an unpleasant man with a knack of jumping to the wrong conclusion, like when he thought I murdered Parker. Detective Pitt was short with a bad comb over and polyester pants that were too short and a bright, flowered polyester shirt that was too tight. His certainty that I was a murderer forced me, Nana Jo, and her friends from the retirement village to become sleuths to figure out who murdered Parker.
“Stinky Pitt, I should have known you’d be behind this debacle. Once again, you’ve got everything bass-ackward, upside down sideways.” Nana Jo taught Detective Pitt in elementary school and loved to embarrass him by using his childhood nickname.
Detective Pitt’s jaw clenched, and his ears got red. “I wish you would remember that no one calls me that anymore.” He glared at Nana Jo, who contrived to look innocent.
She loved to goad him and knew exactly what she was doing. But she was careful never to call him Stinky Pitt around other police officers.
“Look. Dawson Alexander is absolutely not a killer,” I said. “You’ve arrested the wrong person.”
“We haven’t arrested anyone yet. We just brought him in for questioning.” Detective Pitt walked around the small conference table. “But, that’s not to say we won’t be pressing charges. We’ve barely had time to talk to him.”
“And from now on, you won’t be talking to him without legal counsel present,” Jenna said. “Now, I want to talk to my client.”
Detective Pitt looked as though he wanted to comment but, to his credit, he kept silent. He merely shook his head and mumbled something about lawyers meddling or muddling, I couldn’t really tell, under his breath as he left.
“Wow. You’re tough,” I said with more than a little awe.
Jenna laughed. “They don’t call me pit-bull for nothing. I earned that title.”
We waited for several minutes and then the door opened, and Detective Pitt returned with Dawson.
Detective Pitt looked as though he intended to stay and listen, but Jenna wasn’t having it.
“Thank you, Detective. I’ll let you know when we’re done.”
His only response was to turn and leave, but the door did seem to close with a bit more force than I remembered him using previously.
Dawson looked as though he’d aged ten years since this morning. Could it only have been a few hours? His eyes looked tired and the scars that seemed faded this morning looked more prominent now; although I might have been more attuned to them, given our current situation.
“Dawson, I’ve told Detective Pitt I’m your legal counsel. However, you don’t have to accept me. If there’s someone else that you—”
“No. I really want you to represent me. I was just too embarrassed to ask.” He hung his head and looked up sheepishly. “I don’t know how I’m going to pay you.”
“Pshaw. Don’t worry about that. I don’t charge family.”
Dawson looked surprised and misty eyed.
I was a bit misty myself. Dawson was like family. Leon and I were never blessed with children, but Dawson had come into my life during a time when I was in need of someone to focus my attention onto. He’d allowed me to mother him and had slid into one of the holes that Leon’s death had opened up.
“Now, I need to know, what have you told them?” Jenna looked at me and Nana Jo. “Normally, I wouldn’t do this in front of you. Conversations between a client and an attorney are privileged.”
“That means you can’t tell anyone what he says to you, right?” I asked.
“Pretty much. It’s complicated, but that’s the general idea. Legal counsel is charged with giving the best advice possible. However, if someone comes to a la
wyer for advice, they need to feel free to communicate everything without fear anything he says will be used against him. If he holds back, because he’s afraid, I can’t give the best advice.” She looked at Dawson. “Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“Now, understand only the conversation between an attorney and a client are privileged. If Sam and Nana Jo stay, they could be compelled to reveal it. That’s why I would recommend they leave.”
Nana Jo and I both started talking at the same time, but Dawson overrode us. “It’s okay. I didn’t kill her. I don’t have anything to hide. They can stay.”
“I don’t care what the law says. I’d never tell them anything,” Nana Jo said.
“Neither would I.”
Jenna merely shook her head. “Am I the only law-abiding citizen in this family?” She smiled. “My family would apparently lie under oath.” She shook her head.
“For someone I care about, I’d lie like a rug,” I said.
“Darned straight,” Nana Jo agreed. “That’s why we keep you and your husband, Tony, around. Two lawyers in the family come in pretty handy.”
Jenna shook her head then turned her attention to Dawson. “I need you to tell me everything you’ve said to the police.”
“I didn’t really say anything. They kept me waiting in a room for almost an hour. Then Detective Pitt showed up. He started asking me a lot of questions, but I’d had a lot of time to think when I was waiting.” He paused and then shook his head. “My dad didn’t teach me much, but he always said, ‘never say nothing to no cops, boy, not without a lawyer. They’ve gotta give you a lawyer in this country. Ain’t America great?’ That’s what he would say.” He looked around at us. “So, I didn’t say anything. I just said I wanted a lawyer.”
Jenna breathed a sigh of relief.
“Atta boy,” Nana Jo said.
Dawson smiled. “I didn’t think they’d do it. Detective Pitt kept saying I didn’t need an attorney because I wasn’t under arrest. When that didn’t work, he said innocent people didn’t need attorneys. If I wasn’t guilty of anything, then I should want to help them.” He looked at Jenna. “I have to admit, I was starting to crack. If you hadn’t come, I probably would have started talking.”