Persimmon Crown

by R J Fournier

  “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I didn’t know what else to do with it.”

  The judge studied the papers in front of her, leaving Mike and his lawyers awkwardly standing, waiting for her decision. Looking up, she said, “Loyalty to one’s parent is a commendable virtue, but not when it impedes a criminal investigation. Because of your actions, the actual killer could have eluded justice. Because of your actions, we could have convicted an innocent man, namely yourself. And the reason you did this was some vague suspicion that your mother had killed an eighty-year-old woman in self-defense. Your story does not hold together, Mr. Vitkus; it suggests to this court that you’re still hiding something. What the court doesn’t understand is what that might be or why, now that another person is charged with the crime.

  “On the other hand, no purpose would be served in holding you further. I see you were in the army and honorably served two tours in Iraq. Service to our country does not make you or anyone above the law, but it can and should be considered in sentencing. Therefore, the court accepts the plea as offered by the district attorney.”

  ◆◆◆

  Sam had invited Delyth to her house to celebrate Mike’s return and to thank her for helping save his mother’s life. In her reporting, besides carefully not calling it the “persimmon murder,” Delyth had given full credit to Josh Griffin for solving the mystery and to Coco Chanel for bringing down Etienne Cheyne. She glossed over the sheriff’s fortuitous arrival on the scene, letting the reader assume Helen or Marija had called after the fact, but Dennis Tomalson had told Marija who told Sam about Delyth’s call. She’d tried to beg off the invitation, but Sam insisted. In the end, it didn’t feel right to let some journalism-school guideline against fraternizing with sources keep her away. Besides, it was unlikely she’d ever write about them again, so there was no conflict of interest.

  Marija Vitkus opened the door, a gold and red scarf draped around her neck mitigating the severe lines and austere gray of her suit. “Sam’s still with Mike,” she explained.

  “I know. I saw her at the hearing.”

  “I wanted to go, but I stayed to watch the children. I’m Marija Vitkus, Mike’s mother.”

  “I know. We’ve met.”

  “Of course, but we got off on the wrong foot. I thought a re-introduction would be in order.” She extended her hand. “You’ve been such a help in getting to the truth.”

  Delyth held Marija’s hand for a moment without a shake or a squeeze. “That’s my job,” she answered. It was her stock phrase intended to divert a compliment, but after Marija’s comment about “getting to the truth,” she regretted it as soon as it came out, afraid it had sounded pretentious.

  “Helen’s already here,” Marija told her as they went inside. “She took the day off to be here. Sam didn’t want a lot of people. She didn’t want to overwhelm Mike his first day back. But it wouldn’t be complete without you both here. Thank you for coming.”

  Helen was sitting on the sofa with her husband who was holding the leash of a large brown dog lying next to him. From what Sam had told her, Delyth assumed this was the dog that subdued Etienne Cheyne. Helen got up as soon as Delyth came into the room. “There she is.” She approached with both arms extended. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Give me a hug. You saved my life.”

  Delyth endured the embrace long enough to feel Helen’s warmth through their combined layers of clothing. She was the first to break free. “You were pretty much saved before anyone else got there.”

  Helen looked down at the dog. “Yes, Coco is quite the hero. But I was relieved when Dennis Tomalson showed up.”

  “Thanks to Josh Griffin who got him there.”

  “But they wouldn’t have known I was in danger if you hadn’t called.” Helen said. She stepped from between Delyth and her husband. “You know Frank.” He waved in greeting. Then putting a hand on each of the two children standing next to her, Helen added, “I’d like to introduce Michael and Megan Gawley, Sam’s children.” She nudged them forward.

  Delyth wondered if the father realized why Sam had chosen the name Michael.

  Michael seemed four or five, Megan a year or two younger. The boy had on dark slacks and a string tie to dress up a white polo shirt. The girl wore a somewhat tattered, pink princess dress. Delyth figured her mother had given up trying to get her to wear anything else. The boy took Delyth’s hand and pumped it up and down several times. The girl looked away and kept her hands close to her sides.

  “I’m very glad to meet you both,” Delyth said.

  A banner, taped to the wall above the sofa, read “Welcome Home.” It was comprised of letter-size sheets taped together, the outline of the letters printed one per sheet, each letter filled in with crayon, some carefully shaded within the lines, others bold scribbles that completely ignored any constraints.

  “Did you make the welcome home sign for Mike?” Delyth asked the children.

  Michael nodded. “Our Mom printed the letters out from her computer. Megan didn’t stay in the lines.”

  “That’s okay,” Helen said. “It’s just a different style, like modern art.”

  Seeing her with the children, Delyth understood why Helen would be a good teacher. Children weren’t in Delyth’s plan. She assumed she’d missed out on the mothering gene. It wouldn’t be fair to the kids.

  Helen sat and, patting the sofa cushion next to her, said to Delyth, “Here, sit. Tell me about the hearing.”

  They were interrupted by Marija’s announcing, “They’re here.” She waved a hand in their direction. “Michael, Megan, come say hello to Mykolas.”

  The children didn’t move.

  “It’s okay,” Helen said. “He’s a very nice man and a good friend of your mother. She’d like it if you went and said hello at the door. Here, take your sister’s hand.”

  The pair walked toward the door just as Mike came in. He went up first to his mother and hugged her, saying, “I’m sorry.”

  “Mykolas, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one…” Her voice cracked. “I’m the one who should be sorry. If I hadn’t…”

  “Nonsense.” He held her at arms length. “I should never have thought…” He hugged her again.

  “What do you suppose that’s about?” Helen asked Delyth.

  “He thought his mother was the murderer.” Delyth summarized what Mike had said during the hearing.

  “And she thought he’d done it,” Helen said, shaking her head. “How could a mother and son drift that far apart?”

  Thinking of her own mother, Delyth said, “It happens.”

  “But look, they still love each other.”

  Sam had come in behind Mike. She tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Some people want to get through.” Mother and son separated letting Mike’s public defender come in followed by Dennis Tomalson and Josh Griffin.

  “Shit. What’s he doing here?” Delyth was glad to see him, but didn’t know where they stood. She didn’t even know where she wanted them to be. She definitely didn’t know how to act around him.

  Mike had dropped to his knees in front of the two children. “Who do we have here?” he asked. “Could this be Michael and Megan? But which one is which?” Pointing to Megan he said, “You must be Michael.”

  The girl giggled. “Nooooo.” She doubled over as if Mike were tickling her.

  “Oh, then this must be Michael.”

  The boy extended his hand as he had to Delyth but Mike said, “Come here. Give me a hug.” Mike grabbed him with one arm and pulled Megan close with the other. “I’m so glad to meet you both at last.” Sam put a hand on his shoulder.

  Part of Delyth, perhaps the reporter part, found the tableau too perfect, like a photo op of some politician on the campaign trail. It begged for someone to ferret out the hypocrisy of it, like a dentist probing for decay. Another part of her tenaciously continued to believe in the possibilities it presented. She looked away.

  “Where’s Steve?” Mike asked, looking up at his mother. “W
here’s my little pooch?”

  “I tied him in the yard. You know how he gets when he’s excited.”

  “A little pee never hurt anyone,” Mike answered.

  Marija looked at Sam.

  “Let’s go and get him,” Sam said. “That way he can leave most of his excitement outside. Want to come, kids?”

  The family left through the kitchen.

  Marija followed as if worried her son might not return unless she kept him close.

  His path freed, Josh come up to Delyth. He’d let his hair grow out of his usual close-cropped, paramilitary look. Some kind of product held it straight up from his forehead. Delyth focused her gaze on the unchanged, slightly crooked teeth in his smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said. As soon as it was out of her mouth, she worried it sounded hostile. She hadn’t meant it that way.

  “Mike invited me. He said because I helped save his mother’s life. He’s quite a guy, Mike is. Doesn’t hold a grudge. We could learn a lot from him.”

  “Meaning what?” she demanded trying to deflect what she took as an implicit criticism.

  “I just meant everyone should learn to forgive and forget.”

  Before Delyth could come up with a reply that would’ve only escalated the tension, Helen intervened. “I never thanked you for calling in the cavalry.

  "He smiled in response. “How’s your little dog?”

  “Upset with having to wear a cone but it wasn’t a bad break.” Then, looking at them, she asked, “How would you both like to come to dinner on Sunday?”

  Delyth was flustered by the implied assumption that they were a couple, but Josh answered first. “I’d be happy to, but I think we should wait until after Cheyne’s prelim hearing.” Looking at Delyth he added, “You should make sure to be there. It’ll clear up a lot about the case. And about how police actually go about solving a crime.”

  The dig hit home. It stung and confused her. Hadn’t he said her information was helpful? Was she supposed to forgive and forget but he was allowed to continue bringing up his side of the argument? She was ready to respond in kind when Helen interrupted her again.

  “I wish I could go. I have tons of questions. Where’s Sophie? Where’s the painting? If Cheyne killed her—”

  “He’s guilty,” Josh put in. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have arrested him.”

  “Has he confessed?” Delyth asked.

  “Lawyered up,” Josh answered. “but the evidence is strong.”

  “As strong as the evidence against Mike Vitkus?” Delyth muttered, feeling vindicated but not happy.

  Helen went on as if she hadn’t heard. “It wasn’t for the painting. He might not have been aware of how valuable it is, or it could’ve been too hard to fence, even after forty years. But why did he risk leaving France where no one thought to link him to the murder to race back to the scene of the crime? Other than its being a cliché. I don’t know how much the stolen gems were worth, but I guess it would seem like a lot for someone like Cheyne.”

  Delyth stared at Helen. Mike was safe yet she was still knee deep in this thing. She was enjoying it.

  “Arrogance,” Josh suggested. “He thought he’d gotten away with it. Too smart to get caught.”

  “He obviously didn’t find them,” Delyth said, falling into the game despite herself. “He thought you or Marija had them.”

  “So where are the jewels?” Helen was warming to the topic. “There was something Marija said…” She suddenly stopped.

  “What was that?” Josh asked.

  “It probably meant nothing. We were both terrified. She would have said anything to stop him. I’m sure that was it.”

  Now Delyth was curious. “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. I’m just being an old”—then looking directly at Josh—“an old busybody.”

  Delyth knew Helen was neither a busybody nor someone who would let her questions go unanswered. But at that moment Mike and Sam came back in and were calling to them, “Helen, Delyth, everyone, come have some champagne.”

  TWENTY

  Josh called two weeks after Mike’s welcome home party. He didn’t bother with hello, instead, starting with, “I’m surprised I didn’t see you at the prelim.”

  “Vickie’s back from maternity leave a month early, so I’m back on general assignment.” Delyth’s turn at the crime beat was always temporary, originally planned for three months. But the transparent satisfaction in Ted’s voice when he told her it had ended early made it feel like a demotion.

  “No more beating up cops, eh?”

  “Well, it is called the cop beat. ” She continued typing. “Did you want something?” She heard how rude she sounded, so explained, “I’m sorry, I’ve got ten minutes to pull together the obits.”

  “Why do you always wait until the last minute?”

  “I can listen while I type. Give me a quick summary?”

  “We could get together for a drink later. I could describe the whole thing.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah. Unless you have other plans.”

  She stopped typing. He was fishing, but she was too distracted to come up with a coy response. “Tonight’s great.”

  “Usual time at the wine bar?”

  “Okay.”

  After they hung up she started questioning what the call was really about. Did he think their relationship could return to what it was as if nothing had happened? Did she want it to? It would be easier than having “the talk,” discussing both sides of their argument, allotting blame, exchanging apologies. What if he denied any culpability? This was exactly the sort of thing she was trying to avoid by keeping the relationship casual. She wasn’t supposed to care—but she did.

  Right now, though, she had to get back to Katarzyna Szmendziuk who died after a long and undisclosed illness, and seemed to have done nothing memorable other than outliving all her relatives and anyone who might have provided details of her life.

  ◆◆◆

  The wine bar was in an old Pullman Palace railcar poking half in and half out of the town’s renovated trolley barn. During the day it drew a sizeable crowd for lunch or for happy hour between four and six. By seven, the kitchen closed and patrons moved on to dinner elsewhere. Its faux Victorian decor was not to either of their tastes, but the wine selection was varied and the atmosphere conducive to conversation.

  When Delyth arrived Josh was waiting. A few couples were scattered at small tables that lined either side of the narrow interior. Josh stood when she walked up, a strangely formal gesture for him—for them. Delyth guessed he was asking himself if they should kiss, hug or shake hands. She was going through the same litany. In the end, they smiled and sat across from each other without touching.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,” she said. She didn’t explain that she’d left work early to race home and put on a new blouse and redo her hair.

  “I ordered you a glass of Sauvi,” Josh said.

  His remembering seemed a symbol of intimacy, although Delyth wasn’t sure if it was a token of what once was or a promise of what might be. “Thanks,” she said, looking into his intense eyes. In front of him was a glass of almost black wine—the dense kind of Zin he preferred, half the pour already drunk. She wondered if he was as nervous as she was. She made a quick decision to stick to the ostensible reason for the meeting.

  “So, Cheyne’s prelim?” she prompted as she shrugged out of her coat and splayed it on the back of her chair. “I hear it was quite a zoo.”

  She already knew from Vickie’s story the basic evidence against Cheyne. Fingerprints in Cécile DuQuenne’s house taken immediately after her death, especially on the silver frame, matched Cheyne’s and proved he’d been there prior to his supposed first visit to the States. Tire tracks in the mud and paint on a fence along the road close to the house were traced to the car Cheyne had borrowed on the day of the murder. Footprints at the murder scene matched a pair of Cheyne’s boots.

  Although Cheyne’s previous con
viction was not allowed in the hearing, Josh had testified that multiple witnesses from Cheyne’s home village confirmed a long-standing feud between Etienne and his sister over a valuable painting, suggesting revenge as the motive. André DuQuenne described his aunt’s letter that had given away her location. The letter, discovered by French authorities in Etienne’s apartment, was introduced into evidence.

  Vickie spent the rest of the article on the involvement of the French consulate and the subsequent anti-death penalty demonstrators.

  Josh laughed. “It wasn’t that bad. A gaggle of nuns in their old-lady outfits with crosses hanging between their…um…around their necks, and a few college students wearing don’t-kill-for-me t-shirts.”

  He paused as if making sure she recognized how clever he was being. She smiled in appreciation.

  ”A French national,” he went on, “standing accused of murder became their cause célèbre, despite the fact that the indictment didn’t mention special circumstances which would have been required for the death penalty. I think the guy the consulate sent just wanted to make a name for himself.” Leaning forward, he said, “This is off the record, right? You won’t publish any of this? I don’t want the consul guy suing me for defamation.”

  She laughed. “You’re safe. Like I told you, I’m off the cop beat. And Vickie would have a fit if I wrote up anything remotely involving crime. Especially anything related to the DuQuenne murder. She’s still pissed that I got the story while she was gone. I’m back covering education board meetings, obits, the weather, all the exciting stuff.”

  “Oh, too bad,” he said without much sympathy.

  “I was surprised that the prosecution didn’t take the full thirty days to prepare for the prelim.”

  “The DA thought it might tamp down the protests by showing we’d taken the death penalty off the table. It sort of worked. Anyway, the case was solid. We didn’t need the extra time.”

  Delyth took her first sip of wine. She noticed that Josh’s glass stood empty. “So you knew about Cheyne’s fingerprints in the house all along?” she asked.