by R J Fournier
The waitress brought their lunch. When she’d gone, Delyth said, “Oh my God. This isn’t a crepe, it’s a… I don’t know what it is. Whatever it is, it’s huge.”
“I’m glad I stuck with a salad.”
“Lettuce would have been a better choice than eggs and flour.”
Sam studied her salad for a moment. “It turns out Mrs. DuQuenne was murdered near the side door. Someone hit her over the head with a shovel then dragged her body into the shed. The police say footprints in the shed near the body were made by Mike. They match Mike’s boots and the dirt on the boots came from the shed.”
The paralegal in Delyth thought Mike’s lawyer would find a forensic expert who’ll dispute those findings.
“They think Mike was digging a shallow grave in the shed when Mrs. Terfel interrupted him. He is supposed to have hidden in the shadows behind the shed until she left to get help.”
Supposition.
“They found more of his footprints there.”
That’s not proof he was there at the time of the murder. He admitted being there earlier that day.
“It’d rained hard until early-afternoon, so they could only have been made later. But that’s not the worse part.” Sam leaned across the table and half whispered. “They found the shovel buried under his truck. It had the woman’s blood on it and Mike’s finger prints.”
“Holy shit! That’s one stupid place to hide the murder weapon.”
Sam sat back and said in her full voice, “I know. And Mike isn’t stupid. Do you think someone is trying to frame him?”
If he was framed, Delyth thought, it would have to be by someone who knew Mike, and knew he’d argued with DuQuenne. She couldn’t see Freddie Olsen doing it. Then who else? Looking up at Sam’s face begging her to agree, Delyth relented. “Perhaps. What does Mike say?”
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t he at least say he’s innocent?”
“Nope. He hasn’t said a word. He’s nice and polite but he sits there and refuses to answer their questions. Mike’s mother hired a lawyer, but Mike won’t talk with anyone his mother is paying for. He was assigned a public defender who agreed to act as a sort of middleman between Mike and his mother’s lawyer who is actually steering the case. So far, there hasn’t been much for her to report from Mike’s end.”
Delyth was feeling full after just a few bites. She pushed her plate away and drank some lemonade. It was too sweet so she set it beside the banished crepe.
She didn’t know what to make of Mike’s behavior. That the police found clear evidence against him isn’t a surprise. Why else would Josh have arrested him so quickly? He could be the killer. He’d been damaged by the war. Maybe that TV report of veterans exploding in sudden fits of violence wasn’t just a cheap gimmick to boost ratings. Mike seemed to think retreating from the world would save him, but maybe he couldn’t avoid the world in the form of Cécile DuQuenne. She may have pushed too hard and he snapped, as the police said. But Delyth didn’t understand why he wasn’t talking. He could say he didn’t remember. He could say he was with his mother; she’d perjure herself for her son. He could say lots of things. But complete silence?
“How’s Mike doing?” Delyth asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Is he depressed? Is he worried? Angry?”
“Nothing like that. I’d say he’s serene. It’s like being with the fucking Dali Lama. He thanks the guards. He thanks me for coming. He asks about my kids and how his dog is doing. He listens to me pleading with him to tell what happened, then thanks me for my concern. Nothing affects him. He sits there with this little smile on his face.”
“Do you think he’s lost it? I mean, he’s been through a lot.”
“Not at all. He’s wonderful. He’s right there when you talk. He listens to what you’re saying. I mean, really listens. Most people don’t. And he cares about everything. Yesterday he turned his face to the sun streaming through window. He looked…well, he looked beautiful.”
Delyth decided if Sam’s relationship with Mike was pathological, it was a euphoric kind of sickness. But wasn’t that how love started, blissful until the pain hit?
◆◆◆
Delyth checked her voice messages, one from Ted and one from Josh.
Ted said the police had issued a statement in response to her article. It stated they’d interviewed both Sophie Poirier and André DuQuenne. Both were able to verify their whereabouts on the day of the murder and were not considered persons of interest at this time. Delyth detected a touch of smug satisfaction in Ted’s voice.
All Josh said was, “I don’t think we should be seeing each other for a while. At least not until the DuQuenne case is over.”
Sitting in her car, Delyth went through a cascade of emotions within the span of three minutes. At first her eyes burned, her lips trembled. She was shocked and hurt in equal measure. But swallowing hard, she told herself she should have known better than expect anything else. Everyone she’d ever cared for left her, starting with her father who moved to a different continent to get away, then her mother who disappeared into religion. Hurt quickly turned to anger. Josh had dumped her for doing her job. She’d been smart to keep their relationship casual. Tears locked away, she started the car determined to show Josh she didn’t need him.
TWELVE
Helen had called Marija Vitkus multiple times since their visit on the day after Christmas. Marija always seemed to be on her way somewhere and, after thanking Helen for her concern, she’d cut the call short. In that time Marija never once initiated contact, electronic or otherwise. So Helen was surprised when she answered the phone and heard Marija’s voice.
“Is anything wrong?” Helen asked. She mentally kicked herself, wondering not for the first time why she asked foolish questions. Of course something was wrong; her son was in jail for murder.
“I was hoping you could come to lunch tomorrow,” Marija said.
“Oh, you don’t have to go to all that trouble. You have enough on your plate.”
“It’s the least I can do to return your kindness. And, as you know, I don’t have much to do except sit at home and worry. Lunch will take my mind off things.”
Helen could hardly refuse such a plea but had to say, “School’s back in session. Can we make it Saturday?”
“Of course. An extra day is not too long to wait.”
Later Helen remembered what Marija had said and began to worry. Not too long to wait for what? Did she have something important she wanted to talk about? There was nothing Helen could do; she had to work. Still, she felt guilty for deflecting what she now feared was a cry for help. In her anxiety she arrived unfashionably early on Saturday.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Marija said when she let Helen in. “It’s such a lovely day, I thought we could eat outside on the patio.”
Helen smiled and agreed but was glad she’d worn a jacket. It may have been warm for the middle of January, but it wasn’t picnic weather, at least not to Helen.
“I have just the finishing touches on our lunch,” Marija said as she led the way to the kitchen.
“Oh, dear. I hope I didn’t get here too early.”
“Nonsense. It will give us more time to talk.”
Helen was prepared for Marija to jump into the real purpose of the visit. Instead, Marija chatted about the lunch she was making, food prices, the unusual spell of dry weather, the potholes along local roads. In other words, she talked as if her son wasn’t languishing in jail. Helen didn’t know if Mikey was languishing but compared to his mother’s cheerful prattle, she thought he must be.
Marija set two plates and a bowl of salad on a tray then handed Helen a half-bottle of wine and two champagne flutes. “Would you mind carrying these?”
A small table was set near a tall lemon tree, fragrant with blossoms. Marija had Helen sit facing the view of vineyards and distant redwoods. The crab salad, the wine, the view would have been perfect for a lunch at another time, in diffe
rent circumstances. As it was, Helen found it uncomfortable.
“How do you like the wine?” Marija asked.
To Helen it was too sweet and the bubbles too festive, but she answered, “Very refreshing.”
“It’s Lithuanian. It comes from a town close to where I was born.” She topped off Helen’s glass. “Something of myself as a thank you for all your kindness.” She emptied the rest of the small bottle into her own glass. “I’ll tell you, none of my supposed friends have called, not since the arrest when they only called to gloat.”
”I’m sure they didn’t—”
“Oh, yes. People are vicious, like vultures waiting for you to stumble then swoop down and peck.” She reached for her glass and took a slow sip. “I don’t blame them, you see. I brought this on myself.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because, Mykolas and the DuQuenne woman didn’t argue over her miserable persimmons. They argued about me.”
Helen waited for her to explain. The silence seemed to drag on. Helen was about to prompt her, when Marija said, “I went over to ask if she was happy with how the paste looked in the frame. She accused me of trying to rob her.”
“Rob her of what?”
“I presume the real jewels. I was so taken aback I didn’t know what to say. Mykolas saw me walking home. He could tell I was upset. I told him what happened. It was right before they were seen arguing.”
“Have you told anyone else?”
“The police asked me, but I denied knowing about an argument. It would only point suspicion to Mykolas. Now they only have the word of Freddie Olsen about the argument.” She sniffed. “How credible can a grown man be who’s called Freddie?”
Helen had to agree that Freddie Olsen wasn’t going to be the best witness for the prosecution, but not because of his nickname.
Marija went on. “No, we want to keep the argument out of it as much as possible. But what about the jewels? When your article came out last week—”
“It wasn’t my article.”
Marija dismissed Helen’s protest with a wave of a fork laden with salad. “You were quoted in it. Mykolas’ lawyer said it’s good to offer alternative scenarios before the trial. Even if it’s not allowed into evidence, she could allude to it in summation and hopefully establish reasonable doubt in the minds of one or two jurors. That is, if Mykolas allows her to defend him. She says his public defender will be able to do it just as well as her. I don’t know.”
Helen was concerned that Mikey’s defense strategy seemed based on legal tricks: destroying Freddie Olsen’s credibility and pointing to mysterious suspects without proof. It sounded to her like the desperate straws guilty suspects grasp at. She didn’t tell Delyth about Sophie and André to misdirect the police; she wanted them to get to the truth.
“In any case, the article made me think about the jewels,” Marija said. “A fortune in gems would be a real motive, more than an argument over some ridiculous fruit.”
“But that would be bad for Mikey, wouldn’t it?” Helen objected. “It’d give him an even stronger motive.”
Marija snorted. “That’s completely risible. Anyone who knows Mykolas knows he couldn’t care less about expensive things and money. He would hardly kill for them.”
In Helen’s experience most people had low regard for their fellow humans’ intelligence and moral fiber. Jurors would more readily believe that Mikey killed for money than that he’d transcended materialism.
But there was no stopping Marija. “I can’t reveal the existence of the real jewels as the motive for the murder, not without bringing up the argument which would point the finger at Mykolas. But you could suggest to that reporter of yours that the police should be looking for a thief.”
The point of the lunch at last, Helen thought. “Would you perjure yourself if the prosecutor asked if you knew about the jewels?”
“I will say with complete honesty that I had no reason to believe that Cécile still had them. When I gave her the fakes, she didn’t show the real ones to me and never mentioned them. But it won’t come to that. All we want to do is spread the seeds of doubt.”
“What about Mikey? What if he’s asked whether there was an argument and what it was about?”
“His lawyer says it’s unlikely they’ll put Mykolas on the stand.”
The more Marija talked the more she sounded like she and the lawyer she’d hired believed Mikey was guilty and the best defense was legal maneuvering. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea. First, how would Delyth—” At Marija’s quizzical look, she added, “The reporter. How would she learn about the jewels if you can’t say anything about them?” She didn’t explain that Delyth already knew about the fake stones and had speculated about the real ones.
“I’m sure she has her sources.”
“Perhaps. But it just seems much too risky for Mikey. If the police start looking for a thief, they may not look any farther than the man who lived two houses from the victim.”
Marija looked at her for a long moment, then said, “No, you are right. I just wanted to do something. I feel so helpless.” She raised her glass. “I drink to Mykolas. Whatever he did, he did defending his mother.”
Marija reverted to uncomfortable chitchat for the rest of the lunch. Neither of them ate much of the salad. Helen left as soon as she politely could.
◆◆◆
Only on her walk home did she fully grasp that Marija believed Mikey had killed Cécile DuQuenne. Helen still trusted Mikey was innocent. She couldn’t understand how a mother could believe anything else about her son. If Helen ever did suspect her son, it would be a secret she’d keep close, a secret she’d barely admit to herself.
Her cell phone interrupted her thoughts. Surprised it even had a signal along this road, she answered thinking it was Frank. “I’m almost home.”
“What?” A woman’s voice. “Is this Helen Terfel?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Delyth Bitersee. They arrested…”
“Who? You’re breaking up.”
“André Du…”
“André who?” Helen knew the answer before she’d finished the question.
“DuQuenne.”
“Where? Why?”
“He… The brother…”
“What? Hang on. I’ll try calling you back when I get home.”
“You’re breaking up. Try…back.”
“I’m hanging up now. I’ll call back.”
She hurried home.
She longed to talk with someone about Mikey and his mother. Frank would listen then say it was none of her business. And her friends wouldn’t understand why she was even involved. She knew she had to be cautious about what she shared with a reporter, but she felt this particular reporter had a good heart and could be trusted. Even so, she warned herself to be careful.
“I’m sorry,” she said when Delyth answered. “Reception on the road is terrible.”
“I’m driving. When you didn’t call back right away, I thought it was on my end.”
“What’s this about André DuQuenne?” Helen prompted. She didn’t want any more talk about cell phones.
“He got himself arrested. He went to the DuQuenne house—the brother is living there now—and they had some kind of argument. The brother called the police. That’s all I know. The police report didn’t go into detail.”
“Is he still in jail?”
“No. The brother didn’t press charges. Just a minute. I’m going to pull over so we can talk.”
Helen heard the tires rolling over gravel and a thump as the car came to a stop.
“That’s better,” Delyth said. “I thought you’d like to know that the second of your suspects has been found. I don’t think it matters, though. The evidence against Vitkus seems pretty overwhelming.”
“I thought the whole case rested on Freddie Olsen’s gossip about an argument.”
“I’m afraid there’s lots more.” She told Helen what Sam had reported from the
preliminary hearing.
“Oh dear.” She decided to trust her intuition about Delyth the person over her suspicions of Delyth the reporter; she described her lunch with Marija.
“That makes sense,” Delyth responded. “Sam said Mike isn’t helping his lawyers build a case. In that situation, they have to rely on knocking down the prosecution’s arguments whatever way they can. It doesn’t mean they believe Mike’s guilty. I’m more interested in the argument between Marija and Cécile DuQuenne. DuQuenne could have been right. Mike’s mother could have been looking for the real jewels when DuQuenne caught her snooping around.”
“And she sent Mikey in to be the muscle?” Helen said. Her tone suggested skepticism as she said it.
“What?”
“You know. The enforcer. To force DuQuenne to give up the jewels.”
Delyth laughed. “You watch too much TV. But yeah, that or he was trying to find them himself and he got caught just like his mother.” The paralegal in Delyth took over. “That would make them co-conspirators in a felony and equally liable for the murder. No wonder she doesn’t want anyone to know. It wouldn’t save her son, but it would put her in jail beside him.”
“Why did she tell me?”
“She didn’t really. She said she was going to ask if her customer was satisfied. We can’t prove otherwise.”
Helen began to feel as if Mikey had already been tried, convicted and sentenced to—she couldn’t finish the sentence even to herself. She had to find reason to hope. “Were you able to talk with André?” she asked.
“Nope. He’s disappeared. Seems he’s from SoCal. The police don’t know where he’s staying here. At least, they’re not telling me.”
“There’re just so many things going unexplained. The brother saying he doesn’t know Sophie, but her saying they’re old friends from the same village. André popping up suddenly and fighting with Etienne over who knows what. Don’t you think it’s all suspicious?”