My First Murder

by Susan P. Baker

  The judge was relaxed in his chair, rocking back and forth as he listened to and watched the men. I shifted my position a little and could see another man sitting at one of the tables. He was watching the first two. A few spectators were in the audience, whispering to each other.

  I looked back at the bench. Judging from the secretaries back at his office, the Greek God must be Vernon Spencer. He was a looker all right. I could picture him in that office, giving orders, being worshipped by the clones he hired. It was understandable why Mrs. Newbold might not take a liking to him. It was unlikely that he’d be happy in her neighborhood.

  I got directions to the judge’s office. When I entered, I was met by a jolly-looking, roly-poly lady of about fifty or so. Her little, light-blue eyes peered out at me through granny glasses. Her expression was friendly as she invited me in and asked me to close the door.

  “I’m Mavis Davis,” I said after making sure the door caught behind me.

  “Georgia Eden,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

  “I’m looking into a case in Houston, and I need to talk with Vernon Spencer. Could you tell me when the judge might take a break?”

  “Honey, you just missed it. He won’t break again until lunch.”

  “Oh.” If it wasn’t for bad luck …

  “You can set your clock by Judge Henry’s breaks. Ten-thirty ever’ mornin’ and three o’clock ever’ afternoon. Sorry ’bout that. He breaks for lunch at noon if you want to wait.”

  I glanced at my watch. Noon wasn’t for another hour and fifteen minutes. “No, I don’t think so. Guess I’ll try to get some other things done and come back.”

  “You can leave Vern a note and I’ll just add it to his pile,” she said, indicating a stack of pink slips.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Nah. Here,” she pushed her message book and a pen across her desk at me. “Write it out and I’ll be sure to see that he gets it.”

  I leaned over her desk and wrote a brief note to Vernon Spencer, asking him to call me at my motel. Then I handed the book back to her.

  “I wonder if you’d mind telling me something,” I said to her.

  “If I know it,” she said.

  “You know Vernon Spencer very well?”

  She shrugged. “As well as any of the other lawyers that practice in our court.”

  “What kind of cases does he do mostly?”

  “Criminal. Drug cases, murder, that kind of thing.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Yeah, but someone has to do them.”

  “Is Mr. Spencer well liked?”

  “He’s all right, I guess. Of course, I have my favorites like anyone, but he’s okay.”

  “Would you describe him as ambitious?”

  “Very,” she said, and then laughed. “But then what lawyer isn’t? Take Doyle out there. He’s planning on being the next district attorney.”

  “The black attorney? That’ll be a first, won’t it?”

  “Oh, honey, you don’t know Vernon Spencer? He’s the black attorney. Doyle is the white one.”

  “Boy! Am I confused. For some reason I thought the reverse was true.”

  “Do they have a lot of black prosecutors in Houston?”

  “Yes. They come and go like all the rest.”

  “Well, that’s why, I guess. You don’t get many up here, but the numbers are improving all the time.” She smiled at me. “And women, too.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Yes. As soon as they realize they’re being treated like anyone else, it will be.”

  I nodded. I was anxious to leave. “Well, Georgia, it was nice meeting you. Hope I see you again sometime.”

  “You come by anytime.”

  “Thanks a lot for your help.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll be sure to see that he gets your message.”

  “Thanks again.” I left the office, being careful to close the door again behind me. Glancing into the courtroom on my way out, I could see that the jury was back in its box, and now Vernon Spencer was sitting at the table with the man who had been there alone before. Doyle Proctor was positioned at the table that was the closest to the jurors.

  I mentally berated myself for making assumptions about people. When I thought about Mrs. Newbold’s statements though, it made sense that Spencer was black. It would be understandable for Elizabeth Reynolds to bring him back to her old neighborhood, to persuade him to work with the inner city youth and the poor.

  I left the courthouse and walked a few blocks until I got to the offices of the Fort Worth Star Telegram. After making a reasonable explanation to them, I got in to see their old copies.

  For the remainder of the day, I checked the headlines and the police columns of each issue. There were rapes, robberies, muggings, burglaries, assaults, child-abuse cases, drug cases. There was a large drug bust eighteen months ago. Then I came to an issue that reported that Elizabeth Reynolds, a local attorney, was missing. Foul play was suspected, but there was no evidence to back up the police supposition. There were articles wherein her family was mentioned. An interview with Vernon Spencer was in a Sunday issue. Her disappearance was mentioned in less prominence throughout the papers as time went by. Then, nothing.

  I continued to scan the papers until I got to the present date. Elizabeth was forgotten. Life went on.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was midafternoon when I stepped back onto the streets of downtown Fort Worth. The sun bore down so intensely on the pavement that in my thin-soled flats, I felt as if I was walking on hot coals. The glare and the heat were as bad as Houston, except it wasn’t as humid.

  Once again I had missed lunch. Stopping a passerby, I received directions to the Tandy Center, a shopping mall that went underground. There was an ice-skating rink, a Radio Shack, a subway train—but not like New York’s, more like the people movers at Disneyworld—and lots of small shops. I took the escalator down to a place called Japanese Beef or Chicken Bowl, where I got a huge plate of chow mein, an egg roll, and some iced tea. It was three-thirty by the time I swallowed the last bite.

  I drove back to Arlington, parked my car across from the Reynolds house again, and waited. The birds were twittering in the trees. One flew after-and-was-pecking at a squirrel skittering across the road.

  After a few minutes, a school bus arrived, moving slowly through the streets of the subdivision, stopping at every other comer to let out children. It proceeded past me as I waited in my parked car, then eased to a stop not far from the Reynolds’ house. Three children got off. The two boys ran past me. The girl walked slowly to the mailbox, retrieved the mail, and, glancing through it, walked the rest of the way up the concrete path to the front door. She unlocked the door and went in, closing it behind her. That would be Anne.

  Shortly thereafter, a recent-model Japanese compact car, its tires spinning, raced into the driveway and stopped. An older girl got out and went inside. That would be Catherine. A real beauty. Classic looks.

  I continued to wait. Given the time of day and the tree under which I’d parked, the heat was not so bad. Four-thirty came and with it was Mr. Reynolds, right on the dot. He was driving a rundown, dust-covered Ford sedan. He got out, spotted me, and immediately waved me over. I knew my car stuck out like a sore thumb.

  I jogged over to him, held out my hand, and breathlessly announced myself. I was going to have to get some more exercise. His handshake was firm. A good sign.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Davis?” he asked. “Like I said yesterday, I thought I was through discussing my wife’s disappearance.” His tone was almost rude, but I suppose I couldn’t blame him. I watched his face. He had kind-looking features, smile wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, but he looked tired. His hair was gray at the temples where in the photograph it had been a dark blond. He was about my height, and we looked each other straight in the eye.

  I suddenly felt awkward and out of place. “Could we please go inside somewhere private and ta
lk?”

  “Whatever it is that you want, you can ask me out here. I’m not going to put the kids through any more questioning.”

  “Mr. Reynolds, I don’t want to question your kids. I have some news about your wife and I thought you’d want to hear it in the privacy of your home rather than on the street.”

  “What kind of news?” His eyebrows drew together; his head cocked to one side.

  I sighed. “Not good.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Bad news, sir.” I reached into my purse and pulled out the family portrait. “That is, if this was your wife.”

  “Where did you get this photograph?” he asked, snatching it out of my hand. He stared at it, and then, looking back at me, said, “What do you mean if this was my wife?”

  I felt about two feet high. I hadn’t expected him to be so defensive. I’d thought we’d be sitting down in the den or someplace and I’d break it to him gently. Now I didn’t know what to do. I shrugged my shoulders and gestured helplessly at him, not sure what to say. “If you’d just let me sit down and explain it to you,” I said hesitantly.

  “Are you saying she’s dead?” His voice was loud, demanding, angry.

  “Please, Mr. Reynolds, calm down a minute.” I took him by the arm and guided him toward the door. “Let’s go inside.” I opened the door and Catherine came up to me.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Hi. I’m Mavis Davis. I’m here to discuss some business with your father. It’s okay. Is there somewhere I can talk to him in private?”

  “The den,” she said, pointing to it.

  “Please, Mr. Reynolds, let’s go into the den, okay?”

  “It’s all right, Catherine,” Mr. Reynolds said, having sufficiently recovered himself. “Miss Davis and I just have some things to discuss. Go on.”

  “Okay, Dad. Nice to meet you, Miss Davis.”

  I nodded at her, and Mr. Reynolds and I walked into the den.

  He sat down on the edge of a recliner very similar to the one in Doris Jones’s apartment. I closed the door and dragged an ottoman over in front of him and sat down.

  “Where did you get this picture?” he repeated.

  “At the apartment of a woman named Doris Jones, in Houston.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  I shook my head back at him. My heart was pounding, and I felt queasy in my stomach. “I don’t expect you to recognize her name, Mr. Reynolds, but I believe that Doris Jones was your wife, Elizabeth Reynolds.” I pulled out the other photograph, the one Carl had given me.

  He took it and compared it with the first. “She’s dead?” he asked softly. His dark-blue eyes were watery.

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you think she was my wife?”

  “The man she was working for identified her from that picture. We also found some jewelry in a safe deposit box in Doris’ name.” I pulled out the rings from the side pocket of my purse and handed them to him.

  Looking down at the rings, he uttered, “Oh, God!” His hand wrapped around the jewelry tightly. His eyes squeezed shut, and his whole face wrinkled up as though he’d just been fatally wounded.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and put my hand on his. I felt the tears stinging my eyes.

  A few minutes later, he got up. “I want to talk to you, Miss Davis, but not now. Could you come back later?”

  “Sure.” I pulled out a card and wrote the name of the motel in which I was staying on the back of it. “Call me when you want to talk,” I said, handing him the card.

  He slipped the card in the pocket of his suit coat and nodded. His face looked gray. His eyes were wide and staring.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’d just like to be alone with the girls.”

  “I understand.” I left him there like that, standing, staring, a dazed expression on his face. I let myself out of the den, then out of the house. I went back to my car and back to Fort Worth.

  After stopping at a department store and buying some hose, underclothes, and a summer suit off the sale rack, I went to my motel for a shower and a change.

  When I got out of the shower, I called Margaret at home. “You didn’t call me last night,” she complained.

  “I’m sorry, Margaret. I got distracted and didn’t get a room until dark. What’s going on?”

  “You’ll never guess. I dyed my hair back.”

  “Marvelous. What made you do that?”

  “Bernie.”

  “Bernie?”

  “Yeah, my new boyfriend. You wouldn’t believe what he said I looked like with blond hair.”

  I could well imagine. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Margaret. That’s great.”

  “Yeah. I met him at the courthouse. He works in the district clerk’s office. He would talk to me every time I went there to pick up some papers for one of our clients. Finally we went out to lunch. Then to a movie one night. Well, you know how it goes, Mavis. Now things are really warming up!”

  “That’s really neat, Margaret. I’m glad for you. Has Ben called?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “You know he never calls you much at the office, Mavis.”

  “It doesn’t matter. How’s Candy?”

  “She’s fine. She was hoping you’d call today and tell us what’s going on. You know how hyper she gets.”

  “Well, you can tell her everything’s going fine. I met some people yesterday that knew Elizabeth Reynolds ever since she was little. That’s why I didn’t call yesterday evening. I stayed and talked to them for a long time. Then I found a room and, well, by the time I got around to it, it was so late.”

  “Did you go to her office? Did you tell her family?” Her excited voice squeaked in my ear.

  “Calm down. Yes, on both counts. But her office isn’t an office anymore. Her partner moved into this ritzy, old house near downtown. You should see it. It looks like he’s into some big money. And Margaret, guess what.”

  “What?”

  “He’s black, and he’s got these two gorgeous blond, white secretaries. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful they are.”

  “Really? Did you get to talk to him?”

  “No. He’s in trial. I left this number and I’m hoping he’ll call tonight. I did talk to her husband though. You ought to see their house. It’s out in this woodsy area of Arlington, a real expensive section almost like River Oaks or something.”

  “Wow. They must have money. What’s he like?”

  “I’m not really sure. He had a friendly type of face, but I haven’t had much of a chance to get to know him yet. He got upset when I broke the news.”

  “Was it real sad?”

  “Yes and no. I don’t know what I expected. I guess men don’t get hysterical like women. He was upset, but then he asked me to leave. He’s supposed to call me later, too.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you’re accomplishing much, Mavis. I mean for two whole days up there.”

  “I am and I’m not. I kind of feel like I’m treading water in a way. I’ve been giving out information and not receiving any except for those people yesterday. They’re convinced the partner did it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. They said he’s money hungry, and they don’t like him. I’m going to have to think about it a lot. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll get to spend some time with the partner, Spencer, and the family. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Okay. Hey, Mavis, want me to keep on with the study?”

  “What?” I remembered the case Margaret was working on. “Oh, yeah. Is it going okay?”

  “Yes.”

  We talked about what she was doing for a little while, and then hung up.

  I dressed and went to dinner in the motel. It felt great to have some clean clothes and sit down to a proper meal. When I got back to my room, it was approaching nine and I was just getting ready to call
Carl when the phone rang.

  “Mavis Davis?” a muffled voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Go home.”

  I was startled. I couldn’t tell if it was a man’s voice or a woman’s—it was so whispery. “What did you say?”