THE FRONT OF THE hardware store sported red, white, and blue bunting. Given the upcoming holiday, a small trash can held flags on thin wooden poles. A few sad-looking tomato plants and geraniums sat next to the flags and lawn mowers.
The air conditioning felt good when I walked in, a welcome relief from the hot, muggy air.
Andy had the South County News spread on the cash register counter. He started to close it, then recognized me. "Paper didn't say Ambrose did it."
Implied in his statement was that Andy thought it possible. I stopped walking and stared at him.
Andy shrugged. "Course, you wouldn't think he did."
"I know so, emphasis on know."
"Did you bail him out yet?"
God give me strength. "He isn't in town yet."
Then it hit me. Bail money. I had focused on getting him a lawyer, not getting him out of jail. Did Sharon have enough money on hand?
Something about my posture or frown seemed to quell Andy's questions about Ambrose, because he said, "Need something, Mel?"
"Just bought some fertilizer from Brad and David, but I didn't get quite enough. You carry anything organic?" I knew they didn't, so I wouldn't have to walk out with any smelly stuff.
"Nope." He jerked behind him, with his thumb. "But we got some regular fertilizer back there."
Andy's customer service skills were good only if he wanted to chat. Since he knew I didn't, he was again immersed in the paper before I'd gone a few steps.
I walked around the gardening area inspecting pots I could use for my streetscape project. I needed an excuse to ask Andy if he knew much about Nelson's activities these days. No way could I ask if he thought Nelson had been using our barn to store fireworks.
I picked up an eight-inch pot made of heavy plastic and carried it to the counter. Andy didn't even look up until I set it on his newspaper.
"You know if the store can order these in a larger size, maybe twenty-four inches in diameter, a couple of feet tall?"
He looked dubious. "Be a darn big pot. Whatcha want it for?"
"Just for some of the places I'm working. Can you do it?"
"I hafta ask the boss. He does the orderin'." He picked up the small pot. "You want this?"
"Nope. It's for you to use to ask about larger ones."
He placed it behind him, in a cart used to move stock around the store. I didn't have high hopes for him remembering to ask about a different size.
"So, Andy, I hadn't seen Nelson in a long time. He come in a lot?"
Andy's eyebrows went up. "How come you want to know?"
"Might need some more help if I get another big project."
Andy frowned. "Not sure you want to use him. Kinda light-fingered, you know?"
I smiled. "I heard. Haven't seen his name in the paper for a while."
"He's got some kind of thing going. Him and Harlan need to load a truck."
That caught my interest. "With what?"
He shook his head. "Didn't care to ask."
"In other words, you weren't supposed to be listening."
Andy straightened his shoulders. "You saying I eavesdropped? That's…" He seemed to search for a word.
"Offensive? Insulting?" I said this with a smile, and he relaxed.
"I like to know what's goin' on. See, you do, too, or you wouldn't ask."
I turned toward the door, saying, "If you think Nelson's still practicing his old trade, you don't need to tell him I asked about him."
I SHOWERED AND CHANGED into blue twill slacks and a sleeveless peach top, complemented by a tan linen jacket. I generally don't think much about how I look, but I took time drying my hair and put on mascara.
Though she had enjoyed having me around, Mister Tibbs was not happy that I walked her around the block and then wanted to put her back in the apartment. "I'll make it up to you later, girl."
She whined, something she hasn't done since the first day I found her in Syl's barn. She sat on her blanket and looked up with the kind of baleful eyes only a dog has.
I sat on the floor next to her. I wear dark pants because I can usually count on Mister Tibbs sharing dog hair.
"I'll tell you what, girl. You can sleep in my room tonight. Come on." I stood and snapped my fingers.
When she wagged her tail, I picked up her blanket. I needed to get her out of the living room in case Sharon spent the night. Might as well act as if she was getting a treat.
She trotted ahead of me and started to go in the guest bedroom. "Nope. Come on, Mister Tibbs." I put her blanket on my mother's old hope chest and sat a ladder-back chair next to it. She could get on the chair and then the chest to look out the window.
In two bounces she clambered to her blanket, very proud of herself. Her short tail wagged so fast it almost blurred.
"Okay, you can stay there 'til I come back."
This did not please her, but a bird flew by the window and distracted her.
I went quickly down the exterior stairs and pulled out of the driveway before Mrs. Keyser could come onto her porch.
Though the building I headed toward is called the courthouse, it's actually the two-story county office building, which happens to house two courtrooms. It's next to what is formally called the law enforcement building, which houses the sheriff's office and an eight-bed jail.
As I got closer to the courthouse, I noted the heavier-than-usual traffic, so I slowed.
Within several seconds, I realized two television vans and a batch of people stood near the entrance. I could tell they were reporters by the mix of khaki pants and bored postures.
"Damn." I turned right on the street before the courthouse and drove a block before parking. I would probably know reporters from Keosauqua or Fairfield. Certainly the TV reporter from Quincy, Candi Spright, would recognize me. I hadn't seen her stylish clothes in the group or her casually attired cameraman, Bob, who usually sported deck shoes and faded jeans.
With my dressier cloths and nicely styled hair, I hoped out-of-town reporters wouldn't recognize me easily. If they had thought to ask anyone what I looked like, they would have been told I wore cut-offs or jeans and tee shirts.
I didn't feel important. I simply knew reporters would expect me to talk to them since I used to be in the same business.
As I got closer to the courthouse, I didn't see Sandi. Ryan's car was parked near the building. Sharon must have driven it down, which meant the sheriff had released Ambrose's car. Or they were spending the night with me and I would drive them back to Dubuque tomorrow.
My eyes again roamed the area for Sandi, but no luck. Despite Holmes' edict, I thought she'd tell me if she found out something important about Ambrose. Or maybe I was kidding myself.
Ambrose. I couldn't imagine his thoughts or emotions. When I tried, the predominant feeling was despair. I winced. I couldn't add to my own frustration and anger by imagining my brother's.
I wished I'd thought to arrive a lot earlier. I punched Sharon's phone number.
"Melanie?" she asked. "Good. I'm already in."
"It looks like the reporters are mostly near the side door by the sheriff's place. I guess they expect Gallagher to walk Ambrose over."
"They do, but Gallagher brought him over about forty minutes ago."
"Have you seen him?"
"Not to talk. He's with that lawyer Ken recommended."
"Good. I'll come in the main door and meet you by the courtroom."
The flight of steps into the courthouse is short, and I reached the top before I heard Candi's voice call, "Melanie. Oh Melanie!"
I ignored her and went inside.
After a couple of blinks, I spotted Sharon outside the larger of the two courtrooms, sitting on a wooden pew. The pews came from a long-ago demolished church. I've always thought they were perfect for the courthouse, where anybody waiting to appear before a judge probably did some praying.
Sharon had on a tailored gray suit and low heels, much dressier than her usual teaching attire. With her abnormally pale face framed by her dark hair, she looked grim, or as if she had the flu.
She stood and walked to me. We hugged for maybe five seconds, which is a while if you aren't usually huggers.
She pulled back and looked at me. "You okay?"
"I should ask you that."
We walked back to the pew. "I'm mad as six hornets that just had their nest knocked down."
I grinned as I sat next to her. "That's the spirit."
As I said this, I glanced down the hall and saw Newt Harmon leaning against a wall near the exit. My guess was he was there to be sure Ambrose didn't leave.
"Beats tears," Sharon said. "I cried almost the entire drive down here."
I gave her a one-armed hug. "Hey, did you drive Ryan's car?"
She nodded. "Sheriff said he had released Ambrose's and was having it put in your driveway. It's there, right?"
"It wasn't there a few minutes ago, but if Gallagher says it'll be there, it will."
I figured he would have the car driven to my place so there wouldn't be attention from reporters later, when Sharon or I moved it from his lot. Any other time I would have thanked him. Today, I wanted to slug him for arresting Ambrose.
Sharon and I sat silently for maybe half a minute. I looked at Sharon's profile without turning my head. I'd never seen her look so haggard.
"Listen, Sharon, I hear everyone in town thinks it's ridiculous."
She nodded. "Supposedly the county attorney has to tell the judge a couple of reasons why they arrested Ambrose and make a bail recommendation."
Uh oh. County Attorney Smith and I had butted heads previously. I didn't believe he would hold that against Ambrose, but I thought Smith could be pig-headed.
The door to the courtroom opened, and Sheriff Gallagher walked out. He nodded at Sharon and me and rapped on the door across the hall, which I knew to be a small conference room. Someone must have told him to come in, because he opened the door and walked part way into the room before stepping back into the hall.
He gestured to Sharon and me, and we walked toward him. As we reached him, Ambrose stepped into the hall. Gallagher said, "One minute."
I stood aside to let Sharon hug her husband. Her façade must have crumbled, because she gave a brief sob as Ambrose enveloped her. "It'll be okay." He looked across Sharon and winked at me.
Charlotte Dickey, I assumed that's who she was, came into the hall, nodded at me, and turned to the sheriff. "We're ready when the judge is."
Sharon sniffed loudly, and Ambrose said, "Come on, honey, buck up."
Sharon turned to precede Ambrose across the hall, staring stonily ahead as she passed Gallagher. "Buck up my ass."
Sharon and I stood to one side as Gallagher, Dickey, and Ambrose walked into the courtroom. We followed and sat in chairs behind the table at which Ambrose and his attorney sat.
The courtroom we were in was the more formal of the two, with a jury box on the far side and an elevated judge's bench. The dark wood, whether naturally so or darkened after decades of use, created a gloomy atmosphere.
County Attorney Smith and the only other attorney in his office sat at the second front table, quietly conferring. Sheriff Gallagher took a seat behind them.
I looked around. The only other people in the room were Gallagher's assistant, Sophie, and the court stenographer. Sophie had a tablet on her lap, apparently to take notes so the sheriff didn't have to.
I drew a breath of relief, but the feeling didn't last long. The back door, which led to the main hall, opened, and a slew of reporters walked in. Sandi and Ryan gave me what can only be called sympathetic looks, as they moved quickly to get one of the few seats in the room.
Two other print reporters, Buster from Keosauqua and Alberta from Fairfield, also made it to chairs, as did the Ottumwa television station crew.
Not so the Quincy crew, which is the over-the-air broadcast station we get best in River's Edge. I hid a smile. Candi probably wanted to make an entrance, not realizing the room's size. And, more important, no one cared.
A door that led to the judge's chamber opened, and his bailiff emerged. "All rise."
Judge Francis Morton, tall and red-headed, is the Iowa District Judge who serves South County and others nearby. He walked in quickly, robes billowing. No one in our family had appeared before him previously.
Ambrose rose with his attorney, and I stood, squeezing Sharon's hand. I remembered I hadn't asked her about bail money and felt panicked.
The bailiff indicated we should sit, and Judge Morton said this was not a hearing that would determine guilt, simply a presentation of information to determine if there would be "reason to hold Mr. Perkins, grant bail, or permit him to be freed on his own recognizance."
The judge's last statement initially made me feel better. Then I realized he likely used the same language even if the evidence was overwhelming, like someone had been caught on camera robbing a bank.
"Tell me what you have, Attorney Smith."
The county attorney began with basic information about how Mr. Frost had been found and that Ambrose held "the weapon that the medical examiner has determined was used to kill Mr. Frost."
Judge Morton looked around. "I would have expected the sheriff's deputy who encountered Mr. Perkins would be in this hearing."
Since the judge had to know Granger was Frost's nephew, I would have thought Sheriff Gallagher would be allowed to state this.
After a brief pause, Ms. Dickey said, "The defense is willing to stipulate that Mr. Frost's nephew, Deputy Granger, was the first member of law enforcement on the scene."
The judge looked mildly amused. "Not a trial Attorney Dickey, but thank you." He nodded at Smith to continue.
Smith noted Frost appeared to have died "within the last few minutes before Deputy Granger arrived on the scene." He described Ambrose's position next to the body, holding the knife, and said that "the accused claims to have been called to the barn by Mr. Frost."
I was no legal expert, but nothing sounded like a firm reason to accuse Ambrose. Of course Frost had called Ambrose. Of course we would have gone to the farm, and of course Ambrose would have tried to help Peter Frost.
Attorney Smith shuffled a few papers and drew out one that I could see, even from a few yards away, had a star in the margin, mid-page.
"While the murder weapon in the hands of the accused is damning…"
Sharon flinched.
"…perhaps more so are statements that Mr. Perkins made about Mr. Frost's claim to have a verbal contract to sell the Perkins farm to him. A verbal contract made before the death of Martha and Arnold Perkins two years ago."
Judge Morton rolled his pointed finger, as if to hurry Smith's presentation. "And those statements were?"
Smith quoted Patrick Brannon, whom I knew to be the class clown in Ambrose's senior year. Brannon had told Sheriff Gallagher that Ambrose had said "nothing bad enough could happen to Frost," given what Frost had put Ambrose and me through.
I groaned internally. I could see Patrick feeling self-important at being interviewed and not realizing that his statement would contribute so much to Ambrose's arrest. Patrick might have even framed it as something funny. But the county attorney didn't take it that way.
"That's it?" the judge asked.
"No sir," Smith replied. "Mr. Perkins is also quoted as saying, "I'd kill the bastard, but they'd catch me."
That caused paper shuffling and a couple of murmurs from reporters. I glanced at Sharon. She briefly shut her eyes.
Ambrose's attorney then described events as they had actually happened, saying that Ambrose's drive from Dubuque to River's Edge would not have allowed time to murder Peter Frost. "Even if my client were so inclined. Which he was not," she finished.
Dickey added that there was no direct evidence that Ambrose killed Frost and law enforcement had not made any effort to determine whether others might have been angry enough to kill the man.
Smith discounted Dickey's point that someone else killed Frost and then lured Ambrose and me to the barn to incriminate us. "In fact, counselor, Mr. Frost had called Deputy Granger, saying he was upset and wanted his nephew to come to the Perkins' barn."
Sharon and I both sat up straighter. All Gallagher had told me was something like Frost left a message and Granger couldn't reach him when he called back.
Judge Morton told both attorneys to "save it for a potential trial."
County Attorney Smith said he thought it was in the public interest that Ambrose remain in the county jail "as the case proceeds." He then added, "If your honor wishes to consider bail, the people ask that it be set at $500,000."
Charlotte Dickey raised her voice. "Your honor! Mr. Perkins has strong ties to this community and Dubuque. He did not commit this crime. In fact, the most serious crime he's committed was speeding on Interstate 80 five years ago."
Judge Morton looked steadily at County Attorney Smith. "That is a substantial sum. Explain your rationale."
"Though Mr. Perkins grew up here, he resides far outside this jurisdiction. Given that he lives on a farm, even wearing an ankle bracelet that permitted him to work his land would not be sufficient. He works independently. And the death threat was very specific."
Dickey straightened her shoulders. "Your Honor, most of us have said things after a few drinks that we wouldn't say otherwise. My client had no intention of acting on his comment."
"I don't," the judge said, frowning.
No one said anything as Judge Morton jotted a few notes on a legal pad in front of him.
He looked from Smith to Dickey and back to Smith. "While I understand your request for such a large amount, Mr. Perkins' lack of criminal history, the fact that he was on the road from Dubuque for several hours, and his full cooperation upon arrest lead me to set bail at $50,000."
Smith straightened his shoulders, but said nothing.
Morton glanced at Sheriff Gallagher as he spoke. "Given Mr. Perkins' lack of protest when he was arrested and absence of prior criminal activity, I'm inclined to let him return to Dubuque."
"Your honor…" Smith began.
"I hear you, Attorney Smith," Morton said. "But where's he going to go? Canada? His family and property are in Iowa."
A couple of reporters sniggered.
"Ankle bracelets have to be monitored constantly, and I don't think the expense is warranted. Sheriff Gallagher, I'd like you to make arrangements with the sheriff in Dubuque County to have Mr. Perkins check in daily, in person."
The judge looked at Ambrose. "Mr. Perkins, other than a daily visit to the sheriff, you are to stay on your farm unless you need medical care or plan to attend Sunday services. You are to inform the county attorney of any such plans, unless you are transported by ambulance. And then you or your family must call from the local hospital as soon as feasible."
Ambrose nodded, and his attorney said, "Thank you, your honor."
I thought Ambrose looked as pale as Peter Frost had been when we found him.
Judge Morton rapped the gavel, and the bailiff repeated his "all rise" call. The judge walked out, saying nothing more.
I didn't realize Sharon had been holding herself so tightly until I felt her relax. She hugged me, and I patted her shoulder blade.
Ambrose turned to Sharon with a questioning look at the same time a short, balding man walked in front of the cluster of reporters and came toward us. He nodded at Sharon.
When Smith had moved out of earshot, the man spoke in a low voice. "Told you. Let's get those papers signed."
I realized the man had to be a bail bondsman. He didn't live in River's Edge, unless he had moved here recently. I would remember anyone in their mid-thirties who wore button-down shirts and bow ties.
As he gestured that Sharon should accompany him to the defense table, a woman's voice said, "Melanie. Have you got a minute?"
Candi Spright had bugged me several times after Hal Morris' death a few months ago. While I found her bright-eyed style annoying, she had a job to do, and the easier I made it the better she would portray Ambrose.
"My brother or his wife might prefer to do the talking, so I'll just…"
"Bob." Without turning her head she gestured that her long-suffering cameraman should focus on me. "Let's start over, Melanie."
I glanced around the room. Ryan was following Smith out the door, and Sandi stood a couple of feet behind where Ambrose and Sharon were shaking hands with Dickey. The Ottumwa camerawoman and TV reporter were setting up closer to Ambrose. I hoped he could duck them.
Sheriff Gallagher was talking to Mr. Bail Bondsman and pointing in the direction of his office. I supposed that's where bail arrangements would be finalized.
My eyes met Candi's. She had been watching me, and I flushed.
With Bob's camera on me, she asked, "Were you surprised at your brother's arrest, Melanie?"
"As I said, I think Ambrose and his wife Sharon are the ones to talk to more than I. Ambrose and I both had calls to meet poor Mr. Frost the day someone murdered him, and we got there at almost the same time. Mr. Frost had already died."
"Sheriff's deputies maintain they found Ambrose Perkins holding the murder weapon."
"Removing the knife was a reflex action. Ambrose tried to help him."
"Yes, but…" Candi began.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ambrose and Sharon walk out with Sheriff Gallagher and the bondsman. "Really, Ms. Spright. My brother has been talking for himself all his life. He's the one you should interview."
She frowned and pushed the mic an inch or so closer to me. "But what about that threat?"
"It was more of an expression. Same as, 'I'd like to punch that reporter if she doesn't stop bugging me.'"
Bob sniggered, but the news producer could probably edit it out.