My First Murder

by Susan P. Baker

  “Mavis,” she said. “I think Vernon Spencer did it.”

  “Now, Mama, you don’t know that.” Mr. Newbold patted her hand gently.

  “No, but I think he’s the sort that’s capable of it.”

  “Tell me, Mrs. Newbold. How long had Elizabeth been associated with Vernon Spencer?”

  “A couple of years. Like I told you, she met him in law school. After Robert—that’s her husband—finished school, it was her turn. She had only gone part-time before. Then Robert got a job teaching while she went to undergraduate school at the University of Texas at Arlington. They lived around here then. After she got through, they moved down to Austin for her to go to law school. He taught there. Then, when she was through, they moved back here. Well, not here, but to Arlington where he got another position. They bought a beautiful home out there.”

  “Yes, I know. I went there today.”

  “Then you’ve met Robert,” Mr. Newbold said.

  “No. No one was home, so I came over here.”

  “Oh my goodness! Robert and the girls don’t know then,” Mrs. Newbold said.

  “Not to my knowledge.” I shook my head at them. I hated to tell the husband and kids. I didn’t know if I could take it.

  “Oh my,” she said again. “When are you going to tell them?”

  “I don’t know. I was tonight, but I’m awfully tired. I was thinking of calling and making an appointment with him for tomorrow evening. That way I’ll be sure to catch him.”

  “That’s a good idea. You don’t want to tell him over the phone,” Mr. Newbold said.

  “No.” I had several reasons for not wanting to do that, including the ever-present possibility that the husband did it, but I didn’t say so.

  “You can use our phone if you like. It’s not long distance from here,” Mrs. Newbold offered.

  “Thank you. I will before I leave. What else can you tell me about Vernon Spencer?”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Newbold with a look at her husband, “like I told you, I never cared for the boy. He seemed too money hungry and impatient. He never did anything to us or anything, but he never did anything for somebody for which he didn’t charge an arm-and-a-leg, you know?”

  I nodded, trying to be patient.

  “He was a young fella,” Mr. Newbold said. “Quite a few years younger than Elizabeth. He wasn’t married, and he didn’t have any kids. He might be approaching thirty by now; I’m not sure.”

  “I don’t think so, dear. He couldn’t be a day over twenty-eight, I’d say.”

  “Maybe you’re right. It doesn’t matter. I do remember that he drove a fancy car and dressed good, right off. And from what Elizabeth said, he didn’t come from money. She’d taken a liking to him and thought he’d fit in with us here. She wanted to help the people in the neighborhood, not that she didn’t want to make money too, don’t get me wrong. She earned a good living. But she worked hard, long hours making it.”

  “Spencer did the criminal part, Mavis. Elizabeth did some, but she liked to do wills, and she worked with the neighborhood kids, the ones that got into trouble. She also did divorce cases.”

  “And remember she represented Hagar when she got injured falling down those stairs when old-man Johnson wouldn’t fix the apartment building,” Mrs. Newbold said to her husband.

  “Yes. That was the kind of thing she liked. Spencer, well, he was the lawyer for some really bad ones. A lot of them didn’t even come from around here. We’d see them going in and out of the building across the street. We asked Elizabeth once.”

  “Spencer drank a lot, too, Mavis,” Mrs. Newbold said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t drunk every night when he left the office. He kept a bottle up there.”

  “You don’t know that, Mama,” Mr. Newbold frowned at his wife.

  “I do so. The cleaning lady told me. She’d put the empties out.

  Mr. Newbold shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that.” I’d been watching them, my head turning from left to right, like watching a tennis match, as they carried on their conversation. And my appetite returned. I devoured half a sandwich and a couple of plums while all this was going on.

  “And Robert, did she get along with him?” I asked.

  “Far as we know, she did. We didn’t see him hardly at all. He did drop by each Christmas with Elizabeth, to bring us a little gift,” Mrs. Newbold said, her eyes misting over.

  “And they brought the girls each year, too. So we could see how they’d grown and we’d give them each a little something.” “They seemed to get along fine.”

  “Do you know if Elizabeth had any enemies? What do you think could have made her run off like that?” I asked.

  They exchanged looks, and I couldn’t tell if that meant anything or not. Then Mrs. Newbold shook her head.

  “I can’t think of a single person who would want to harm a hair on her head,” Mr. Newbold said. “Even the people she went up against never threatened her or anything so far as I know. Seems like I would have heard about it.”

  Mrs. Newbold nodded. “Everyone loved her.” Remembering Catherine’s letter, I asked, “Do you know somebody named Madge?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Newbold chuckled. “Madge Hennesey. That would be Elizabeth’s best friend. She’s a funny girl. Came in with Elizabeth for lunch several times.”

  “Would you know how I could get in touch with her?”

  Mr. Newbold shook his head.

  Mrs. Newbold said, “She works at a bank. Can’t remember which one, though. You’d have to ask Robert. He’d know.”

  I sighed. It was time to go. “Mind if I use your phone now?”

  “No. You need the number?” Mrs. Newbold asked as she got up from the sofa and led me to the telephone in the kitchen. “Yes, please, do you have a phone book?”

  “Better than that, I have the number up here on the wall. I’ve never marked it out. Every once in a while I call the girls just to see how they’re doing.” She smiled, and the smile wrinkles were like big clefts in her cheeks.

  I called the Reynolds house. One of the girls answered. When I got Mr. Reynolds on the phone, I did no more than introduce myself and tell him that I was an investigator and needed to talk with him the following day about his wife.

  His voice was deep, and he said in a resigned tone, “I thought that was all over.”

  “No, sir,” I said. “It’s being reopened and I’d like to speak with you in person, if I may.”

  He invited me out for four-thirty the following day. I thanked him, hung up, and shrugged at Mrs. Newbold.

  “It isn’t going to be easy,” she said.

  “I know, but I have to do it.”

  “It’s the girls that I’m worried about.”

  “Yes. Well, I need to go now. I need to find a place to park myself before it gets real late.” I smiled at her and slipped my arm across her shoulders. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “I hope so.” Her voice sounded a little throaty.

  We walked back through the dining room into the living area where we found Mr. Newbold looking out the blinds at the front window. He turned when he heard us.

  “I’ll walk you out, Mavis,” he said. “It’s not safe for you by yourself.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.” I gave Mrs. Newbold a little hug and picked up my purse and briefcase. Mr. Newbold and I went back down the stairs where he flipped on one light so we could see our way to the front of the store. He unlocked the door and came out onto the sidewalk with me.

  “I’ll watch you until you get to your car. Is it that Mustang over there?”

  “Yes, how’d you know?”

  “Unfamiliar car in my neighborhood.”

  I laughed. “Maybe you should have been an investigator.” He smiled. “Maybe so.” He held out his hand and took mine and gave it a squeeze. “Be careful.”

  I nodded. “Why do you stay here?”

  “It’s our home.”

  I nodded again and started across the stre
et.

  He hollered after me. “Mavis, call us if there is anything at all that we can do.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After I got settled in my motel room, I found myself restless and unable to sleep. The conversation with the Newbolds went round and round in my head. As tired as I was, I was anxious to proceed with the investigation.

  To think that I already had a suspect in Vernon Spencer was almost too much for me to handle. I wondered if Mrs. Newbold was just bitter or if Spencer was really the type of person she described. I lay in bed turning things this way and that until finally I must have drifted off.

  When I awoke the next morning, it was after nine. I’d forgotten to leave a wake-up call. I could have lashed myself with a wet noodle. I had planned to get an early start, to catch Spencer first thing.

  I hurriedly donned the same skirt and blouse that I’d worn the previous day. If I was going to stay long, I’d have to get some more clothes soon since I hadn’t packed for this long of a trip.

  Spencer’s office was located in a house about a mile north of downtown. I passed a grain elevator and a tough-looking industrial area before I found it. It was a two-story, white frame building with huge stained-glass windows. The landscaping alone would have to cost more than I earned in a year. The shrubs were sculptured into shapes of animals. Flowers blossomed on both sides of the walk. A large tree cast shade over the front of the building. I went up the steps to the front door, which was half wood and half stained glass, and next to it was an engraved sign about three foot square that read, VERNON J. SPENCER, ATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR AT LAW.

  As I entered, I was not surprised to have to walk across carpeting at least a foot deep in order to reach a receptionist who looked like she just stepped out of the pages of Vogue. She was a young girl of about twenty or so. Her blond hair was perfect, her nails a $50 job, and her clothes, well, let’s just say that I’d give my eye teeth to exchange mine for hers. When I asked for Mr. Spencer, she smiled at me, flashing teeth that would do a toothpaste ad justice, and announced that he was at the courthouse in trial. When I started asking more questions, she got up from her station and left the room saying I’d have to talk to Mr. Spencer’s legal assistant.

  The waiting room was decorated with huge potted plants, gold-framed posters of festivals and art shows, and thick-velvet sofas. The receptionist’s desk was some kind of dark wood, cherry or mahogony, and was clear of clutter except for a designer telephone set. When I grew up, that was the kind of office I wanted to have. Except for velvet sofas. I’m not real keen on velvet.

  My observations were disturbed by the appearance of another blonde. She was a carbon copy of the first one, or rather, the first was a carbon copy of this one, who was a few years older.

  She looked me up, down, and sideways as she approached me, making me feel that I’d come from the wrong side of the tracks, then held out her hand and said, in a melodious tone, “Hello, I’m Miss Sanders, Mr. Spencer’s legal assistant. What may I do for you today?”

  I took her hand, but almost dropped it when we shook. Her skin was cold and clammy. Her shake was limp. Like a dead fish. “I’m Mavis Davis. I’m from Houston, up here investigating a case. I really need to talk with Mr. Spencer, but I understand he’s in trial. Do you know when he’ll be available?”

  “No, I really don’t, Miss Davis. We’ve been hoping for days that he’d return. We miss him so. But it’s been simply weeks and the case hasn’t even gone to the jury yet. I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Oh.” I tried to hide my disappointment. “Well, maybe you can help me. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  “Well, I don’t know. If it has anything to do with one of our clients, I’m afraid that would be confidential, and I’d have to get Mr. Spencer’s permission.” Her icy blue eyes stared at me without wavering.

  “It’s not about a client. It’s about Elizabeth Reynolds.”

  Her eyes flickered just for an instant, cut over toward her duplicate; then she recovered herself. “Who?”

  “Mr. Spencer’s former law partner. Hey, how long have you been with him anyway?”

  “One year this month. I’m the senior assistant. I was hired when he purchased this building, and I helped decorate it.” She straightened up a bit, as if in an attempt to look down her nose at me, but I was taller, so my nose was higher than hers.

  “I guess you didn’t know Miss Reynolds then, did you?”

  “It’s fair to say that I’ve heard her name mentioned, but no, I didn’t know her. You’d really have to see him, and I’m afraid that’s impossible today.”

  “Well, what court’s he in?”

  “State district court, downtown.”

  “I guess I could go there then, couldn’t I? Well, thanks so much for your help. You’ve been a doll.” Truer words I’ve never spoken, for she did look artificial. I turned to leave.

  “You can’t see him there,” she said, her tone as cold as death. “He’s in trial and can’t be disturbed.”

  “Thanks again,” I said, flashing a grin over my shoulder as I headed for the door.

  She called after me. “Really, you won’t get to talk to him. You’re wasting your time.”

  I nodded at her as I left.

  Once downtown, I had to park several blocks away from the courthouse because there was a lot of construction going on. The courthouse was a beautiful old stone building that obviously used to be in the center of the town square, but now there were buildings that had been added right up next to it, and walkways were being constructed.

  The brown building next door looked something like a church. The painted facade featured a lady or an angel in a robe. She was carved from white stone. She must have been forty feet tall, from the tip of what looked like wings raised over her head to the bottom of a block on which she appeared to be standing. She was all in white, with her hands folded crosswise on her chest, and a set of scales hanging from her hips. I wondered if she was supposed to symbolize justice or mercy.

  The old building I had to go into had a tall set of granite stairs leading up to the wood and glass doors, and lots of high windows.

  Since I serve papers in Houston, I know the district clerk’s office is kind of like a control center for the courts. If I was lucky, I’d be able to find someone there to tell me in what courtroom Spencer was trying his case. I found the building directory on one of the marble walls, but to my surprise, I was in the wrong building. The appellate courts, the probate clerk, some county courts, and the county clerk were housed in that building. I shouldn’t have been surprised. The Houston courts are divided up into many separate buildings, but for some reason I was expecting the Fort Worth court system to be contained all in one place. Asking directions, I found I had to go next door to find the district clerk’s office.

  In the next building. I found the district clerk’s office, which looked much like those in Houston, cluttered, but a pretty blond girl—Why did everyone seem to be blond?—directed me across the street for criminal stuff. This was getting boring. It was hot and my head was swimming as I crossed through the construction zone to the third building.

  This building was a real museum piece. Outside, it had a state historical marker that gave a brief rundown of Fort Worth’s history. Mostly it housed adult probation and the district attorney’s office. I finally found a clerk and, armed with a copy of the monthly docket sheet I eventually discovered the courtroom where Spencer’s case was docketed. Don’t ask me what building that was, I lost count, but think it was the fourth or fifth.

  When I got off the elevator, I found a number of people hanging out in the hall. Each wore a badge that said JUROR. I walked over to the courtroom and peeked in the window set in one of the doors at the rear of the court. The docket sheet listed a case number, the name of the defendant, the charge—in this case delivery of a controlled substance—the prosecutor, Doyle Proctor, and the defense attorney, Vernon Spencer.

  I could
see two men up at the bench conferring with the judge who sat in a large armchair that was centered in some sort of arch that made it appear as if the room was a temple rather than a courtroom. But for the flags bordering each side of the temple, I would have thought I was in the wrong place. The computer at the clerk’s end, the witness stand, and the jury box also clued me in.

  One of the men was white, with light-brown hair and a sculptured profile like that of a Greek God. He wore a sleek-fitting suit and highly polished shoes. He was gesturing madly with his hands, as if trying to make a point.

  The other man was young-looking and black. His hair was closely cropped, his skin more yellow than brown, and his dark brown eyes were flashing as he made what looked like a rebuttal argument to the judge. He wore a light-brown tailored suit, spit-polished brown loafers, and his tie dangled loosely from his neck as he did a lot of gesturing.