Secrets of the Last Castle

by A. Rose Mathieu

  * * *

  Grace tucked Elizabeth’s red scarf under her arm and straightened her shirt collar before she walked up the path to the front door. She found the scarf on the cemetery path the day before and she looked forward to returning it. She hesitated before knocking and wondered if it was too early, but then delivered three solid knocks. When the door opened, it was unclear who was more shocked to see the person on the other side of the door—Grace or Camille.

  An awkward moment passed before Grace spoke. “I just came by to drop this off. Elizabeth left it behind yesterday.” She thrust out her hand, and Camille accepted the scarf.

  “Elizabeth’s in the bedroom. Do you want me to get her?”

  “No,” Grace snapped. “Just let her know that I came by.”

  Grace didn’t wait for a response and turned and took long, swift strides back to her car. She felt an overwhelming need to escape.

  * * *

  The open, two-story apartment building that once looked to serve as a motel, sat with a fresh coat of paint, which helped its look a bit, but not a lot. The front gate was rusted, the roof tiles in disrepair, and the lawn was on the wrong side of healthy. Nonetheless, the second apartment on the left on the top floor was where Danny called home, and he seemed rather pleased with it, which was all that mattered in Elizabeth’s mind. She helped him settle into his new place during his first week of work, offering the first and last month’s rent, along with the security deposit.

  On this particular bright, crisp morning, she sat in her car snuggled between a decrepit pickup truck and a fire hydrant and waited for Danny, who had run in to make a quick change into fresh clothes. To fill her time, she listened to a debate on a local station between Democratic State Senator John McDermott and Reverend Rick Peterson. The debate jumped in topics from the state’s right to self-regulate under the Tenth Amendment to the appointment of Judge Powers for the state Supreme Court. Reverend Peterson advocated for Judge Powers, as well as for the religious liberties law currently on the court’s docket.

  Elizabeth wanted to yell at the radio as Reverend Peterson used inflammatory language in support of his conservative views, but found comfort in Senator McDermott’s rational responses that were based on the law. The senator was better versed on the Constitution, and the reverend began to falter and stumbled over his words. Satisfied that the self-righteous reverend would be on the losing end of the debate, she turned off the radio and returned her attention to Danny’s apartment building.

  There was still no sign of him. They parted ways with Camille shortly after breakfast, citing her own need to return to her place to shower and change. When the five-minute stop turned into fifteen, she used the alone time to call Grace. She was sorry that she missed her when Grace stopped by. She would have loved to put the real person to her fantasies of last night.

  When her voice mail picked up, she waited for the appropriate time to speak. “Hi, Grace, I’m sorry I missed you this morning. Maybe we can get together for lunch or dinner? Okay, well I guess I’ll talk to you later. Oh, and thanks for the scarf.”

  Danny finally made his reappearance wearing dark corduroy pants and a long-sleeve polo. And that took fifteen minutes? On the drive into SILC, Danny had no qualms about commandeering her radio, turning it to a hip-hop song that in her opinion was not deemed music, but extensive talking that didn’t even rhyme. She shook her head.

  “What? You too old for this music?” Danny asked.

  “Music? The rhyme doesn’t count if they have to mispronounce the word to make it fit.”

  Using the controls on her steering wheel, she changed the channel to an eighties station, but he balked and turned the knob back. A battle ensued and only blurbs of music could be heard. She resigned herself to the testosterone-induced lyrics and did her best to go to her happy place in her mind for the last five minutes of their drive.

  At the clinic, she lingered in the waiting area for a moment admiring the changes. She had to admit, somewhat reluctantly, that her mother knew her stuff. The dowdy and worn office had been transitioned to classy and functional. Light tan walls were accentuated with white crown molding; sleek, but comfortable, leather seats were complemented by a matching couch; and in the corner, a graceful fountain gurgled playfully. Ah, the fountain.

  She pulled out two wicker baskets that sat under a sturdy table in the center of the room and found a collection of newly purchased toys to suit multiple ages. Okay, sometimes my mother rocks.

  She continued to admire the changes as she moved through the clinic, including an expanded kitchen to make up for the closet they previously called a kitchen. She turned to see her office door open, and a slight panic rose in her. She had made it a habit of keeping it closed since the work started to keep the dust in her office to a minimum. What would she find or not find in there?

  She cautiously approached and moved inside her newly painted and furnished office. Behind a stately glass desk was BD, with a new gray cushion on the seat to accentuate its newly polished black leather, as well as to add comfort. Elizabeth had to smile.

  She settled in but not before running her hands over the smooth, cool glass of the desk surface. It certainly beat the scarred wooden desk that had small ruts and holes. She pulled over a short stack of files and began sorting through. She had spent the day before working on non-Francis case matters that she had been neglecting, and today would be more of the same. Although the clinic couldn’t afford to bring on a new attorney, she was managing to keep up with the help of the small army of legal interns that she recruited from her day at the law school.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” a familiar voice called from her doorway.

  “Morning, Mom.” She wasn’t surprised to see her because their early morning phone call had originated from the clinic. “The furniture looks great. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for this place. The toys in the waiting area are a really thoughtful touch.”

  “I know.”

  Elizabeth chuckled at the answer. Her mother didn’t need praises; she knew her worth.

  “Elizabeth, I want to introduce you to the contractor responsible for this renovation.” She heard the formal tone in her mother’s voice and lifted her head. “Frank DeRoso, my daughter, Elizabeth Campbell. She’s the attorney who runs this place.” There was a slight emphasis on the word “attorney,” which worried her. Her mother was selling her to a new prospect.

  She forced a smile and stood to greet the man responsible for the new and improved version of SILC. “Nice to meet you, Frank. Thank you so much for all the wonderful work you and your men have done.”

  “You can’t give me all the credit. Your mother was the driving force behind all this.” They gripped hands, and she noted he was ruggedly handsome with a kind face and endearing smile, but her mind was fully preoccupied with a particular detective.

  “Coming,” her mother called out the door to a phantom voice. “You two get acquainted while I see what they need.”

  Smooth, Mom, real smooth. Elizabeth gestured to her new, never been sat in, leather guest chair, and Frank sat down. “She is an interesting woman,” he said.

  “That she is, without a doubt.”

  “So, you run this place. Your mother has told me all about the great work you do here.”

  “Yup.” She smiled and nodded. Has she given you my dress size, my preference for sleeping in on weekends, and dates in which I am available to possibly…oh, I don’t know…get married? “So, you’re a contractor?”

  “Yup, that I am.”

  The conversation picked up and moved to more interesting topics and after they spent a respectable amount of time conversing, he politely excused himself to return to his duties. He wasn’t half bad if it was another lifetime and he was a different gender.

  She turned her attention back to the files and spent the next few hours preparing case memos and briefs. In the end, she was pleased with her accomplishments and felt once again on track, at least as the legal
clinic stood. A grumble from her stomach announced that her eggs and English muffin from the morning had worn off. She checked her phone to see if she had missed any calls. Nothing from Grace. She slipped the phone into the side pocket of her bag and jumped when it began to chime. She pulled it back out.

  “Hello,” she answered, a little breathier than she would have liked.

  “Hi, Elizabeth, it’s Rich.”

  She tried to hide her disappointment at the voice on the other end and went through the polite greeting process. Despite her initial reaction, she was glad that he called, as she planned on reaching out to him in the afternoon, but she would have liked a lunch date from a certain blond detective.

  “I’m sorry to say that my friend was unable to find anything of use on the papers you found. He didn’t have any better luck deciphering it but guessed it was probably a personal journal. He offered to perform a chemical analysis test to date the paper, check its authenticity.”

  “Thanks, Rich, I’ll keep that in my mind. On another note, what information do you think you can gather on the life and death of Josiah Webb?”

  “Who?”

  “Josiah Webb was the last family member to live on the White Horse Plantation. He apparently died on the plantation.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  After a promise to get the information to her as soon as possible, they spent another minute conversing before Rich was called away, and Elizabeth was free to go in search of food and a possible lunch partner.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Elizabeth walked into the courtroom, Grace was sitting in the far corner of the front row behind the prosecution table. She was unsure whether her presence was voluntary or not. Pretrial hearings generally didn’t involve witnesses; they were meant as a venue to air out any motions or other issues before jury selection and trial. Camille was unable to rearrange her work schedule and was absent.

  There were other matters on the court’s docket that morning, so Elizabeth approached the court clerk to announce herself and returned to the gallery. During the perfunctory check-in process, Grace never looked her way, but instead busied herself with her phone.

  A gentle murmuring of conversations filled the courtroom, as she settled herself in the front row on the opposite side of Grace. After a discreet sideways glance down the row, Elizabeth knew that she was being ignored. When Grace didn’t return her call, she was willing to dismiss it as an oversight due to a heavy caseload. She certainly didn’t want another episode where she jumped to conclusions because of an unreturned call; however, this was hard to overlook. She won’t even look at me. Now what? Last she knew, they were on good terms, well, as good as could be expected given their current circumstances. Weary from the yo-yo relationship, she wondered why it had to be so hard.

  Consumed with her phone, Grace missed the standing courtroom in response to the arriving judge, and it didn’t go unnoticed, by Elizabeth anyway. Must be one hell of a text. Fortunately for her, the Francis case was called first.

  After introducing herself, Elizabeth took her seat at counsel’s table and trained her eyes on the judge’s bench, but she was fully aware that Grace had moved forward and taken a seat behind the prosecutor. A shackled Jackson emerged from a door on her right and was escorted to her side, and she patted his hand in greeting.

  “I have a motion here from the defense requesting production of all documents relating to a police investigation of the said victim from 1963.” The judge’s voice raised in pitch near the end, coming out more as a question.

  “Yes, Your Honor. It appears that the victim in this case had been the subject of another investigation in which she was murdered.”

  “How is that possible?” the judge asked.

  “That is what the defense would like to know, which is why we requested any and all documents relating to the 1963 crime and subsequent investigation.”

  Turning to the prosecution, the judge asked, “Care to enlighten me?”

  “Through our investigation of the case, we have learned that the victim may have been involved in an earlier incident, but due to clerical errors, may have been misclassified as a murder,” Assistant District Attorney Wilcox answered.

  Elizabeth wanted to jump from her seat and yell, “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” but restrained herself, not because she didn’t believe the statement was appropriate, but as hurt and angry as she felt by Grace’s actions, she couldn’t do anything to betray her. It was unlikely that she had permission to reveal the 1963 case to the defense, much less bring her along on the gravesite excavation, and as a result, had been very careful to protect Grace’s involvement in her attainment of that information. Instead, she alluded to her own research as the source of her knowledge.

  “Your Honor,” Elizabeth calmly spoke. “Even if the prosecutor’s assertions are correct, the fact remains that the identity of the victim is still unknown. Access to the prior investigation might provide insight as to the victim’s identity.”

  “Is this true?” the judge asked ADA Wilcox.

  “May I have a moment, Your Honor?” The prosecutor turned behind him and leaned into Grace. Elizabeth couldn’t hear the contents of their discussion, but the body language clearly indicated friction. He returned his attention to the judge. “Yes, Your Honor, that is correct.”

  “Well, that being the case, the court orders that the prosecution turn over any and all information relating to the 1963 crime and any and all information and evidence from the investigation to the defense within forty-eight hours. Is there anything else further on this matter?”

  “No, Your Honor,” ADA Wilcox said.

  “No, thank you, Your Honor,” Elizabeth offered in a more conciliatory tone.

  The court moved on to more housekeeping matters of the case, including setting a date for jury selection and trial. A defendant was guaranteed a right to trial within sixty days of indictment, and there was only about a month left on the clock. Fearing she needed more time to piece together the unknowns, the trial was set out in six weeks. With all pretrial matters complete, the hearing adjourned, and Elizabeth offered a rushed good-bye to Jackson before gathering her belongings to vacate the table for the next defense team. As she stepped away, she was stopped short by ADA Wilcox cutting in front of her to make his exit, which put her face-to-face with Grace, who stood directly behind him. She made brief eye contact before Grace pulled away and opened the swinging door that separated the gallery from the well, to allow Elizabeth to walk in front of her. She offered a small, appreciative smile, but it missed its mark because Grace never removed her eyes from the floor as she passed.

  Hoping to avoid a confrontation, Grace held back and watched Elizabeth walk out of the courtroom. Grace had been well aware of her presence from the moment she entered the court. She had been anticipating her arrival from the time she pulled herself from bed after only a few hours of sleep. She spent the prior day filled with thoughts of her and couldn’t shake the sick feeling of seeing a sleepy Camille at her door.

  She wasn’t convinced that there was anything intimate between them, but a part of her, the jealous little green monster that took up a small space inside her, wasn’t ruling it out, given the predatory look on Camille’s face. She was only grateful that Camille was absent from the courtroom because even the smallest of touches between them was more than she could witness in her beleaguered state; however, her early morning self-diatribe went beyond jealousy.

  It was more of what was fair—fair to Elizabeth. Grace couldn’t give her what Camille could, even when Elizabeth reached out and kissed her. Grace shut her down, citing their positions in the case as an obstacle. Patience was what she asked of her, but Elizabeth deserved better, and it was this thought that left her sitting with a heavy heart and unable to look at the one woman who exacerbated and fascinated her like no other.

  “Excuse me, Detective Donovan,” Elizabeth said, catching Grace’s attention as she exited the court, as wel
l as the attention of ADA Wilcox, who was standing on the opposite side of the hall. Grace hesitated a moment before taking a few steps, stopping an arm’s length in front of her.

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I can’t.” Grace looked at her before averting her eyes.

  “You can’t what? Grace, look at me.”

  With effort, she raised her eyes and stared at the hurt and confused face, knowing she was responsible, but she found no words to say. Selfish, that’s what I am. Elizabeth stepped closer, as though searching for answers in her eyes. Grace wondered if she saw her mental flagellation, pain, or fear. All three would be correct.

  “Detective,” ADA Wilcox said, breaking their silent exchange. “May I speak with you please?”

  Grace allowed her eyes to linger a moment longer; she was not quite ready to let go.

  “Detective,” he insisted behind her.

  Closing her eyes and taking a deep, stabilizing breath, she turned away from Elizabeth and moved to ADA Wilcox, who was so insistent on having her attention, and she felt, more than saw, Elizabeth walk away.

  “No fraternizing with the defense, Detective. Need I remind you the side you work for?” ADA Wilcox said.

  After he received the last-minute defense motion the day before, ADA Wilcox had questioned her on how they attained the information, coming short of outright accusing her of treason. Grace neither confirmed nor denied his suspicion and instead allowed him to rant. When he neared the end of his bombastic lecture on duty and service, she simply asked whether it would be grounds for a mistrial if the prosecution failed to turn over exculpatory evidence. That stopped him short before he exclaimed, “Exculpatory, my ass,” and stormed away. However, the prior day’s encounter served as a stark reminder of the canyon that stood between her and Elizabeth, and why she had to let her walk away.

  “Detective, are you even listening to me?”