by Tracy Weber
That gave me motive.
A witness found me bent over the body, holding the murder weapon.
That gave me means.
I was alone with Monica’s body for several minutes before anyone found us.
That gave me opportunity.
If I wanted to look innocent, I shouldn’t have touched anything. I shouldn’t have wasted time looking for cell phones. I should have immediately left the spa and run screaming for help. But what if Monica had still been alive? I couldn’t leave her there, floating. Not when there was even a remote possibility that I could save her. So I’d done everything I could think of to help—all while making myself look guilty, at least to Sergeant Bill.
But I knew something Sergeant Bill didn’t. I knew I was innocent. I may have had means, motive, and opportunity, but so did the real murderer. I didn’t know who that was—yet—but I was damned sure going to figure it out. Washington was a death penalty state. My life might depend on it.
The car turned right and bumped along a long, dusty gravel road that ended at a squat wooden building. The sign out front read “San Juan County Sheriff: Orcas Island Station.” Sergeant Bill pulled into one of the four parking spots and turned off the ignition. He released me from my mobile prison cell and uttered the first words he’d said to me since we left Elysian Springs.
“After you.”
He nodded at a middle-aged blonde seated at the reception desk and led me to a small, airless room containing a metal table and two chairs. The room’s baby-vomit-green walls were completely bare, with nothing, not even the requisite two-way mirror, to make the space feel inviting.
Sergeant Bill slowly lowered the blinds. Each screeching pull on the multistringed cord sucked out more of the room’s oxygen. Each disappearing sliver of light siphoned off more of my confidence. My heart hammered. My mouth felt dry. Even my skin itched. I hadn’t done anything wrong, so why did I feel such an overwhelming need to confess?
“Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?”
“Coffee would be great. Thanks.” The last thing my already hyperaroused system needed was caffeine, but holding the hot mug might soothe me. At the very least, it would give me something to do with my hands.
He left the room and said he’d be back shortly. The door clicked behind him. I turned the knob, just to be sure. Locked.
I had no idea how much time passed as I sat in that small, suffocating room, but it was long enough for my conscience to go crazy.
Maybe I was guilty, in a way.
My actions didn’t warrant a life sentence, but they were nothing to brag about, either. Yoga’s philosophy advocates nonviolence—in actions, words, and thoughts. I didn’t lay a hand on Monica, but my words certainly carried a punch. And my thoughts, well they’d been downright malicious. I’d practically dared the universe to hurt her.
All of my recent sins haunted me while I waited in that putrid room. The longer I sat there alone, the guiltier I felt, which was probably Sergeant Bill’s plan all along.
After at least a decade, Sergeant Bill returned and placed a paper cup of metallic-smelling brown liquid on the table. He skipped the preamble and got right to the punch.
“Look, no one thinks you planned to hurt that woman. Everyone I talked to said she was a real bitch. You just got angry—out of control. Maybe even temporarily insane.” He sat down and crossed his ankle over his knee. “I want to help you, but I can’t. Not unless you allow me to. Make it easy on yourself and confess. I’ll do everything I can to help you get a reduced sentence.”
The sheer ludicrousness of the situation finally occurred to me. “Yes, I was mad at her—over a dog. Why would I kill her over that? I barely knew her! Besides, like you said, Monica was a real …” I stopped myself. “Not many people liked her.”
“Yes, but you were the only person found choking her.”
And that’s when I panicked. A chemical thunderstorm raged through my system. My adrenal glands opened, flooding my body with adrenalin and cortisol. My heart pounded. My blood sugar plummeted. I felt dizzy, frustrated, and terrified all at the same time.
I pounded my fists on the table and yelled, “I didn’t choke her!”
Sergeant Bill uncrossed his ankle and raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a temper you have there, miss. Did you lose control like that this morning? Is that why you strangled that poor woman?”
Two horrifying images flashed through my mind. The first was a thirty-two-year-old, pony-tailed yoga teacher gripping the bars of an eight-foot-square prison cell. The second was the confused face of the unadoptable German shepherd she’d left behind. The fire in my system fizzled, suffocated by heavy, cold dread.
At first I said nothing. I clutched the arms of the chair, stared at the table, and took several lengthened breaths. Then I consciously relaxed my hands. Finally, I stalled for more time by sipping the tepid battery acid inside my coffee cup.
By the time I looked up, I had no energy left for false bravado. “You’re right. I have a terrible temper. Always have. I’m not proud of it.” Tears blurred my vision. “But I’ve never been violent, not once. I swear to you, I didn’t kill Monica. I tried to save her life.”
Sergeant Bill wrinkled his brow, leaned back, and stared at me for at least a century. He gave a single, distinct nod.
“I believe you.”
I tried to read his expression, but I couldn’t be sure. Did he really believe me, or was this another one of his tactics?
He sat forward again and laid his palms on the table. “Talk to me, Miss Davidson. Tell me exactly what happened this morning.” He held up a finger. “And this time, don’t hold anything back.”
Lord only knows what would have happened next. I certainly wasn’t about to exercise my right to remain silent. Frankly, I would have done just about anything to leave that oxygen-deprived room. I opened my mouth, about to admit everything—beach walk, death threats, and all.
“I never meant to—”
The door burst open and a tall, bearded man strode purposefully into the room.
“Hello, Bill. You may as well stop right now. My client is done talking.”
His client?
If he was a lawyer, I was a supermodel.
The gray-bearded man wore filthy jean overalls hooked over a red flannel shirt. An unpleasant smell emanated from the soles of his work boots. I’d never met this man, but I knew him. His picture had hung above my dinner table at Eden.
What was the goat rescue guy doing here, claiming to be my attorney?
Sergeant Bill looked annoyed. The goat man, amused.
I’m pretty sure I looked like I was about to be sick.
My horrified eyes locked on the stranger’s beard. I saw something in it—something different than the usual collection of saliva and food crumbs. Something was lodged in that disorganized tangle of facial hair, right next to his chin. It only moved when he talked, right? Surely it wasn’t … it couldn’t be … alive?
I looked to the side and tried not to gag.
“Who are you?” I asked between swallows.
The goat man’s reply sounded stern, in spite of his disarming, hillbilly twang. “Miss Davidson, I highly recommend that you shut that pretty little mouth of yours.” He turned to my inquisitor. “My client has nothing to say to you, Bill. So unless you plan to arrest her, you’d best be letting her go now.”
Sergeant Bill sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine, Dale. You win. But she’d better not leave the island.”
Dale, the goat lawyer, gestured toward the door. “Give us a second, honey. Your friends are outside.”
Just the invitation I was waiting for. I scurried out of the room and joined Michael, Rene, and Sam in the lobby.
Michael wrapped me in a long, hard hug. “Kate, are you OK?”
“I’m fine. Stressed out, but fine.�
� I pointed to the interview room. “Who’s that guy in there claiming to be my lawyer?”
“He’s a lawyer?” Michael looked confused.
“He must be John’s friend,” Rene replied.
I rubbed my temples and groaned. “I thought this day couldn’t get any worse. You called John?”
I understood why. John O’Connell had been my father’s partner at the Seattle Police Department. Even more importantly, he was my friend. He practically adopted me when Dad died. After twenty-five years on the force, John, more than anyone, would know where to find me a Get Out of Jail Free card.
Still, it was hard to know which would be worse—death by hanging or a life sentence of listening to John’s lectures about my newest run-in with the law. I supposed I could always choose lethal injection …
“Don’t be mad, Kate,” Rene said. “I called him. We didn’t know what else to do. John said you needed a lawyer—immediately. He told us to head to the station and wait for a friend of his.”
Michael took over telling the story. “We left right away. That farmer guy walked in a couple of minutes after we got here.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe he’s an attorney.”
“Maybe John’s developing Alzheimer’s,” I quipped.
“Funny, Kate.” Rene smiled, but her eyes remained sober. She put her hand on my arm. “Hon, you need to take this seriously. You might be in real trouble. Is it true that you threatened to strangle the woman who was killed?” Her face turned green. “Oh no, I think I’m going to be sick.”
She covered her mouth and bolted for the bathroom. By the time she reemerged a few minutes later, Dale had ambled into the lobby. His voice was significantly louder than I would have expected, considering he was bound by attorney-client privilege.
“It was just like I thought. Bill doesn’t really think you killed anyone, but he had to bring you in to keep up appearances, it being an election year and all.” He reached out his hand. “I’m Dale Evans, by the way. I’m your attorney. You must be the infamous Kate.” He paused mid-shake, pulled me closer, and peered directly into my eyes. “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”
“Of course not. Why would I kill someone over an off-leash dog?”
He smiled and released his grip. “That’d be a new one, grant you that.” He flashed a huge smile at the obviously eavesdropping receptionist. “Hey there, Dolores. How’re you doing? Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
She quickly looked down and resumed typing.
Dale put his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry, honey. Bill’s a little slow on the uptake, but he’s good folk. He’ll figure out who killed that poor woman. You’ll be on your way back to Seattle in no time.”
I’m sure he meant to comfort me, but the effect was exactly the opposite. As Dale’s arm wrapped around my shoulders, his beard moved dangerously close to my face. That thing—I prayed it was a thing, not a creature—was still lodged between several wiry gray hairs. It moved as he spoke; it jiggled with every syllable.
This would never do.
I raised my hand to brush the tiny object away, but I couldn’t make myself touch it. I wiped at my own face instead, hoping Dale would get the hint.
He didn’t.
My eyes begged Michael for help, but he just looked at me and shrugged. I felt my lips quiver. My skin started to crawl. I tried to inconspicuously back away, but Dale hugged me in closer, almost touching me with that greasy, gray scraggle of man fur. I gulped and tried not to panic. “Dale, there’s um … something, um … something on your chin.”
“Oh is there, now.” Dale backed away and brushed at his beard. A piece of brownish-yellow straw fluttered lifelessly to the floor. “Sorry about that. I was cleaning out the goat pens when John called.” He looked down at his clothes, as if noticing them for the first time. “I didn’t take time to get all gussied up. John said you were smart as a whip, but that you’d be a pain-in-the-ass client. He said you probably wouldn’t keep your mouth shut, so I hopped in my truck and headed straight to the station.”
He chuckled. “Quite the excitement, your little murder is. We don’t get a lot of crime around here, ’cept maybe some shoplifting now and again. Heck, most people don’t even lock their doors. They get a big, mean-looking dog and call it good. Last major criminal around these parts was the Barefoot Bandit.”
He walked to the reception desk and winked at the still-eavesdropping woman behind it. “Now that was some excitement, wasn’t it Dolores? That young kid running around stealing airplanes and all.” Dale poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the desk and drank it in several thirsty gulps. “Been years since we had a murder on the island.” He crumpled the paper cup and tossed it the trash. “This’ll be fun.”
Michael and I gaped at each other incredulously, for once in complete agreement. I didn’t know why John had sent this man to represent me, but I knew I could find someone better. I had to find someone better. But first I needed to fire Dale without hurting his feelings.
“You’ve been great today. I appreciate your help. But the thing is … um … maybe I need a different lawyer. You know … maybe one from Seattle.”
“Sorry, hon. You’re better off with a local. People ’round here don’t take much to strangers.”
Obviously, I hadn’t made myself clear.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re a friend of John’s, and I’m sure you’re very talented, but I don’t think you’re the right person to represent me. You said yourself, there hasn’t been a murder on Orcas in years. I need someone with more criminal experience.”
Dale stopped slouching. His eyes sharpened. The twang in his voice disappeared. He leaned in close and whispered, so as not to be overheard. “Ms. Davidson, I can assure you that I am completely qualified to handle your case. I moved to Orcas six years ago, but before that I spent twenty years as a defense attorney in Seattle. I obtained acquittals for ninety percent of my clients, and unlike you, most of them were guilty. Now be quiet and follow my lead.”
Dale slouched again, smiling. Deep wrinkles softened his eyes. His voice boomed throughout the room. “Now how ’bout we go find ourselves a cup of coffee and figure out how to get you out of this mess.”
ten
When we emerged from the building and walked out to the parking lot, all four spots had been taken. Sergeant Bill’s police car was still parked in the spot nearest the door. Sam’s Camaro and Michael’s Explorer occupied the two shady spaces in the middle. A broken-down-looking orange Plymouth pickup littered the space on the end. Dale’s, I assumed.
Dale gave me directions to his office while Michael let Bella out of the car to take care of her biological duties.
I pointed to Sam’s car. “Why didn’t you guys all come together in the Explorer?”
Rene smirked at Sam. “Mr. Macho here is afraid to ride in the same car with Bella.”
“Do you blame me? That dog hates me!”
Dale followed Sam’s gaze to the sniffing explorer-dog and broke out in a huge, hairy grin. “Well hey, there, beautiful. Come on over and say hi!”
Sam grabbed his arm. “Don’t get close to that dog. She hates men with facial hair.”
Dale looked affronted. He shook off Sam’s grasp and walked straight toward Bella. “Don’t worry, I’m great with dogs.”
I had a terrible feeling those might be Dale’s last words.
Bella looked up from her sniffing, spotted Dale, and moaned. She took a tentative step toward him.
Dale crooned in reply. “Oh, sweetie …”
I tried to step between them, but my legs seemed to move in slow motion, and there was no stopping them anyway. Dale and Bella pined for each other like star-crossed lovers kept apart by an evil stepmother. Dale staggered toward Bella; Bella lurched toward Dale. Michael dragged behind her like a not-heavy-enough anchor. They closed the distance separating them in three
seconds flat.
I watched, shell-shocked, as the drama unfolded. Dale knelt on the pavement, reached out his arms, and pulled Bella in close. She responded by licking his face and nibbling at his beard.
Sam gaped at them both. “What the hell?”
Bella wiggled, wagged, whined, and drooled all over Dale’s chin. Dale raked his fingernails up and down her spine. Neither man nor beast had ever looked happier.
“Told you,” Dale said. “I love dogs!”
Sam crossed his arms and glared. “Un-effing-believable.”
Bella stopped wiggling and turned toward Sam’s voice. She flatted her ears and lifted her upper lip, exposing several sharp white teeth. The expression wasn’t at all friendly. I could have sworn that I saw Rene raise her lip too, but I must have imagined it.
“I’m so sorry, Sam,” I said. “She never shows her teeth like that. She must sense that you’re uncomfortable.”
Sam kept his eyes firmly locked on Bella’s. “That’s the third time she’s done that to me today.” He shuddered. “I swear that dog’s going to kill me in my sleep.”
Rene’s evil grin brightened her sallow complexion. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sam. I sleep right next to you.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Bella’s much too smart to leave a witness.” Rene paused and wiggled her eyebrows for emphasis. “She’ll wait until the two of you are alone.”
Sam took several steps back.
I gave her a dirty look. “You’re not helping.”
“Come on, Kate. Someone has to lighten the mood around here.”
_____
Several minutes of human-canine bonding later, Dale left and told me to meet him at his office. I gave Rene a quick hug, asked her to go back to the center, and promised that Michael and I would return to the cabin in a couple of hours. As Rene sagged into the passenger seat of the Camaro, Sam pulled me aside. Worry lines creased his brow.
“I feel selfish for asking. You’ve got your own problems right now …” His voice trailed off.