Max didn’t stay late; despite his outwardly relaxed appearance, I got the impression he was getting more and more on edge as time ticked past and Monday got closer and closer.
Monday, when the D.A. was supposed to formally charge him with murder and he’d be arraigned. Not for the first time, I wondered why they hadn’t done so immediately and just gotten it over with.
But Max Sullivan wasn’t exactly your garden-variety murder suspect, and with a face that would be recognized almost anywhere he went, it wasn’t as though Chief DeVargas could have worried he was much of a flight risk. No, the chief had probably decided it was better to let the D.A. work on the case over the weekend so he’d have something iron-clad to present to the judge on Monday morning.
Well, I didn’t care how iron-clad the district attorney thought his case was. I knew he was barking up entirely the wrong tree, and I was going to do my damnedest to discover who’d really pulled that trigger and left Perry Lockhart bleeding out in the living room of his rented house.
No kiss goodnight from Max, of course, but he did surprise me by giving me a quick pat on the shoulder before he thanked me for dinner and headed out. He also promised to text me when he had some news.
“You’d better,” I said. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of the morning rush. Just text me, and I’ll head right over to the courthouse.”
I could make such a promise because I knew Deanne would cover for me in such an eventuality. Also, since Las Vegas was the San Miguel County seat, the courthouse was only a few blocks away. I could drop everything and be there in a couple of minutes.
Max didn’t protest, only thanked me again for all my support, then headed down the porch steps and walked over to his rented Bronco. As he went, I thought he must be enjoying the peace and quiet that staying here in his hometown had to offer. From what I’d be able to tell, he was pretty much hounded by paparazzi no matter where he went in Southern California, but it appeared those rapacious photographers weren’t quite as thick on the ground in this part of New Mexico.
Sadly, I knew the peace and quiet wouldn’t last, that as soon as news got out about Perry Lockhart’s death and Max being formally charged with the crime, the metaphorical poop was going to hit the fan full force.
I closed the door behind him and then locked it. Once upon a time, my grandmother had left the house unlocked unless she was going to be gone for the day, but Las Vegas had suffered its own changes over the years, just like the rest of the world.
Max had helped me clear the table, but I still had a pile of dishes on the counter and pots and pans in the sink. Getting everything cleaned up was going to take a while.
Which was okay. That kind of mindless work would allow me to think — and at least I’d had a dishwasher installed when the kitchen was remodeled, or I would have been looking at even more scrubbing than currently awaited me.
I was wearing a sleeveless top, so I didn’t have to worry about rolling up my cuffs to get them out of harm’s way. With the warm water flowing, I set to work as I stared out the window into the backyard, now completely dark except for the solar lights that marked the various pathways.
Okay, so I could scratch Jon Bransford off my list. That still left Letty Mendoza, admittedly a long shot, since she didn’t seem to have any kind of history with Perry Lockhart, and…despite his relationship with Lauralee Peters…he didn’t seem like the kind of person to inspire the sort of ferocious passion that would drive someone to murder.
And while I supposed Letty could have developed a mad crush on Lauralee, that scenario also seemed pretty implausible.
Which meant I basically had nothing to go on other than the tea leaves’ enigmatic message that this was definitely a crime of the heart.
I got the dishes done, and briefly pondered whether I should brew up another batch of tea and see whether this time around I might get a piece of more actionable information. Unfortunately, it was nearing ten o’clock, and I had to be up no later than five. Yes, I could try one of my herbal blends rather than green tea and avoid any caffeine, but I’d still be awake way past my bedtime.
Besides, even if the leaves provided some kind of miraculous revelation, there probably wasn’t much I could do about it this late on a Sunday night.
So, I did the practical thing. I wiped down the granite counters, hung up the damp towel, and made myself go to bed. Whatever might happen the next day, I’d just have to deal with it then.
The alarm went off way too early, in a black morning that didn’t do much to make me feel better about crawling out of bed at that hour. However, I was used to the schedule, and I told myself it could have been worse. I’d washed my hair the day before, which meant all I needed to do this morning was run a comb through it, spritz it with some water to turn my early morning frizz back into somewhat acceptable waves, and call it a day.
I made myself coffee, though, strong and black, since I was feeling just a little morning-afterish that day, thanks to the bottle of wine I’d shared with Max the night before. It wasn’t that I was a complete teetotaler, but in general, I usually only had a single glass with dinner, and often skipped alcohol altogether if I wasn’t in the mood. A leftover cornbread muffin generously smeared with butter seemed a quick and easy breakfast, and by five forty-five, I was out the door and headed over to Levitation Latte.
No missed calls or texts, which was about what I’d expected. Max had probably gone straight to bed after he left my place, and it was way too early for him to be up now, even if he did have a possible arraignment hanging over his head. I really hoped he’d gotten a decent night’s sleep despite everything.
He deserved it.
Because I’d tidied up before I left the previous afternoon, I went straight to work baking up that morning’s batch of muffins, along with some croissants and bagels. By the time Deanne appeared at six-thirty, the whole shop smelled deliciously of baking bread and cinnamon and blueberries, and she inhaled deeply as she pulled on her apron and tied it behind her back.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that smell,” she said, then pulled in another aromatic breath. “It’s a pretty good reward for getting up this early.”
“Agreed,” I replied. The one cup of coffee I’d had with my cornbread muffin hadn’t felt sufficient that morning, and so I already had a pot brewing. “Coffee?”
“Love it.”
I poured a cup for both of us, then headed over to the fridge so I could put some cream in mine. After I returned the cream to its shelf and shut the door, I turned back toward Deanne, who now wore a halfway speculative expression.
“I heard you were open yesterday,” she said, her tone almost but not quite accusing.
Since I’d known there was no way to keep that particular fact from her, not when I’d had quite a few locals wandering in and out the previous afternoon, I just shrugged. “I thought it might be a good way to gather some intelligence.”
Deanne absorbed this explanation, then nodded. “And did you?”
“A little,” I said. “I found out Perry Lockhart and Lauralee Peters had some kind of a relationship. But I don’t think it had anything to do with his murder.”
Although a startled light had entered Deanne’s eyes at that particular piece of news, she didn’t ask any questions. That was a relief, because she tended to be more uptight about some things than I was, and I had to guess she wouldn’t be too thrilled at the news that Ms. Peters had been pouring brandy into her coffee and that I hadn’t done anything to stop her. That sort of thing could technically get us in trouble with the restaurant licensing board, and definitely wasn’t the sort of mess I wanted to have stirred up right now.
“And Max?” Deanne said next.
“I had him over for dinner last night, and we discussed some possibilities. But neither of us was able to come to any useful conclusions.”
Being Deanne, she ignored Max’s looming criminal case and instead went straight to the much more important revelation about his having dinner at my house. “He came over?” she demanded. “How did it go?”
“Fine,” I said. Clearly, she was thinking that now Max was back in town, we could make up for the decade we’d lost, and he’d finally figure out that the two of us were meant to be together. “I mean, it was friendly, like the past ten years might never have happened. But that’s all it was. Just friends.”
For a second or two, I wondered if I should tell her about how he’d touched me on the shoulder as he told me goodnight. Then I decided that was probably a bad idea. She’d read way too much into what had only been a gesture of friendship and thanks, and nothing more. All right, maybe even that off-hand touch had been enough to send a little thrill of warmth through my entire body, but luckily, I’d managed to keep it cool. Max hadn’t noticed anything.
I hoped.
“Still,” Deanne said, clearly unwilling to let it go, “he came over, instead of just hiding out at the ranch. I think that’s kind of a big deal.”
“He probably wanted to get out and about while he still could,” I remarked. “Once he’s charged and arraigned, he’s going to have a lot less leeway to come and go as he pleases.”
Deanne’s eyes widened. “You really think it’s going to come to that?”
“Unless Chief DeVargas and the D.A. back off, which I kind of doubt is going to happen.” Sheer force of will kept me from pulling my phone out of my pocket and taking another look to make sure I hadn’t missed any calls or texts while I was getting the muffins ready. It wouldn’t be seven o’clock for another twenty minutes, and I highly doubted Max was even awake yet.
The timer on the oven went off, and so I hurried back into the kitchen to pull out the muffins. Deanne came along with me, a frown tugging at her brows. But then her expression cleared, and she actually smiled.
“Well, if Max posts bail but has to stay here, that’s good, isn’t it?”
By her logic, yes, I supposed that was one way to look at the situation. If the judge told him he had to stay in San Miguel County, then by necessity, we’d probably get to spend a lot more time together doing our best to determine the true culprit before the case actually went to trial.
“Maybe,” I allowed. “And we don’t even know whether the judge is going to make that a condition of bail or not. Max might just have to stay in the country, which means he’d still be free to go back home to L.A. until it was time to come here for the court case.”
Deanne’s expression clouded for a moment, but because my friend was the sort of person who could find the silver lining in just about any situation, her smile returned full force. “Oh, I think the judge will want him to stay. Honestly, you’d think Max would want to stick around town anyway. He has family and friends here, and I have to believe it would be a lot easier to dodge paparazzi in Las Vegas.”
Which was pretty much what I’d been thinking as well, but I didn’t know whether Max would share our view of the situation. I had no clear idea what his house in L.A. was like, because he was pretty strict about maintaining his privacy and never seemed to allow reporters there for interviews, but I imagined it must be some kind of gated compound in Bel-Air or maybe the Hollywood Hills, the sort of place where he could hole up for an extended period, especially if he had an assistant to fetch and carry for him. Sunset Ridge Ranch was gated as well, but the fences surrounding the property weren’t that high. A determined paparazzo could easily scale them and then lurk in the shrubbery, just waiting for the moment when Max came out to sit on the patio and drink his morning coffee, or whatever.
In the end, he’d have to do whatever the judge told him to do. His own personal wishes wouldn’t have too much weight in the matter, unfortunately.
I said, “I guess we’ll just have to see,” and Deanne took the hint for what it was. We could do all the speculating in the world, and yet it wouldn’t matter one bit in the end. Like Max, we’d just have to wait and see what happened.
And then it was seven o’clock, and we had the usual rush of early morning customers coming in to get their lattes or mocha javas, or Darjeeling or green tea, and there wasn’t much chance to talk further. A few people sent me speculative looks, as though they wanted to ask questions about Max, but I did my best to stay bright and cheery, putting up an impenetrable wall of brisk friendliness, and managed to avoid getting the third degree.
Things calmed down a bit around nine, but I wasn’t granted much of a reprieve, because at nine-fifteen, the text came in.
At the courthouse at ten.
That was all, but it was enough. All my hoping and wishing hadn’t done a darn thing.
Max Sullivan was going to be arraigned in less than an hour.
Deanne told me that of course she’d watch the shop for as long as was necessary, and so I headed over to the courthouse a little before ten. When I’d gotten dressed that morning, I’d put on one of my better pairs of jeans and an actual blouse rather than my usual T-shirt, just in case I had to show up at the courthouse after all. My apron had spared the outfit from getting too messed up during my muffin-making that morning, and a quick dust to get off the rest of the flour had done the trick to make me look mostly presentable.
All the same, I found myself reaching up to self-consciously smooth my hair as I approached the building. It was a spare-looking place in the ubiquitous pueblo style so prevalent throughout northern New Mexico, although with a couple of columns and a shallow set of steps added to the façade as a nod toward more traditional courthouse design.
To my dismay, there were a bunch of people with cameras already clustered there. Clearly, they’d found out about Max’s arraignment somehow. Maybe the docket had been made public earlier that morning, and it had set off some kind of Google alert or something. Not being a paparazzo, I couldn’t say how it all worked.
A Lincoln Town Car pulled up in front of the courthouse and Max emerged, accompanied by an efficient-looking woman with an impeccable blonde bob. She wore a dark suit and carried a briefcase, so I guessed she must be none other than Beverly Cursio, his thousand-dollar-an-hour attorney.
Immediately, the paparazzi descended, calling out Max’s name, peppering him with questions. He didn’t look to either side but continued into the building, his lawyer acting as something of a human shield to get him through the mob and safely inside the courthouse.
Watching all this, my first instinct was to leap into the fray and do my best to keep the horde of photographers away from my friend, but common sense asserted itself. It wouldn’t be very smart to identify myself as someone close to Max, someone they might end up hounding in order to get some inside information about his case. Maybe they’d find out about our connection eventually, but I might as well put off that evil day for as long as possible.
Doing my best to look completely casual, I approached the courthouse steps. At once, the paparazzi turned toward me…and then, realizing I was nobody, they started scanning the street to see if anyone more important might be coming along.
I didn’t exactly breathe a sigh of relief, but I did feel a lot better once I’d slipped inside the building and taken a seat in the courtroom designated for Max’s arraignment. There were only a few places available on a bench in the very back, and so I wouldn’t be able to get a decent view of what was going on.
Well, it was better than nothing. At least I was here to lend moral support, even if he probably didn’t realize I was in the same room with him.
“All rise,” the bailiff intoned, and I dutifully stood with the rest of the spectators. Across the aisle, I glimpsed a flash of too-bright blonde hair that looked halfway familiar, and my eyes narrowed.
Raylene Evans.
She hadn’t spotted me, luckily, and I made sure to sit down as quickly as possible once the judge entered the courtroom and the bailiff told everyone to take their seats.
What the heck was Raylene Evans doing here? If nothing else, with a five-, a seven-, and an eight-year-old still at home, you’d think she would have something better to do with her time.
But I remembered how Max had told me about her apparently undying love for him, and how she’d desperately wanted to get back together. That sort of devotion had probably compelled her to do whatever it took to make sure someone was watching her kids so she’d be free to come to the courthouse. I doubted anyone would question her behavior too closely, considering the two of them had been high school sweethearts. It was only natural that she’d want to be here to see what was happening firsthand.
Because I was at the rear of the room, I couldn’t hear everything of what was exchanged between the D.A. — a lean, intense-looking man whose cold gaze didn’t bode well for my friend’s future — and Beverly Cursio. They went back-and-forth for about fifteen minutes or so, with the district attorney presenting the preliminary evidence and Ms. Cursio doing her best to shoot it down.
At length, though, the judge said — clearly enough that even I could hear him, “I rule there’s sufficient evidence to proceed to a trial. Mr. Sullivan, if you would please stand.”
As murmurs rustled through the courtroom, Max got to his feet. He was wearing a gorgeously tailored gray suit and a dark blue tie, and he held his head high. “Yes, your Honor?”
“Bail is set at one million dollars.” The judge paused there; he was an older man with only a fringe of hair around his ears, but his eyes held something that almost looked like a glint of amusement. “I assume you can afford that,” he added dryly.
“Yes, your Honor,” Max replied. He didn’t sound particularly tense; maybe he actually felt better now the moment had arrived and he could start to formulate a game plan for what might come next.
“Well, then.” The judge stopped again, eyeing Max and his attorney, gaze flicking over to the district attorney for just a second. “You will remain here in Las Vegas, Mr. Sullivan. If you need to leave San Miguel County for any reason, your attorney must petition the court for your right to do so. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
Max’s voice didn’t shake a bit. Was he secretly glad he could stay put, wouldn’t have to go back to Los Angeles and face all the questions and the inevitable shunning by people he regarded as his peers?
Possibly…or possibly he was acting now as well, putting on a brave front. I couldn’t see his face from where I sat, and so I had no idea what expression he was wearing just then.
After that, the D.A. and Max’s attorney approached the bench and held a brief convo. Once they were done and had backed away, the judge announced, “The trial will begin on Monday, October third.”
Only three weeks away. I tried to console myself that three weeks was plenty of time to clear Max’s name and make sure the actual murderer was safely locked up, but considering how much success I’d had so far in that pursuit, I didn’t know how hopeful I could be.
It’s better than next week, I told myself, which was only the truth.
After that, the bailiff escorted Max away from the bench, probably taking him off to handle his bail payment. I wondered how he’d manage such a thing. Not actually affording it, as the judge had commented; to a guy who regularly made eight figures for a film, a million-dollar bail was basically lunch money. Still, it wasn’t the sort of transaction you could put on a credit card. Maybe they’d do a wire transfer or something.
Either way, it looked as though he was going to be tied up in paperwork for the next little while, so I stood, slung my purse over one shoulder, and slipped out while the spectators in the courtroom were still murmuring amongst themselves. I had to assume a bailiff would clear the space soon enough, but there wasn’t any point in me sticking around to see what happened next.
Max had been formally charged with Perry Lockhart’s murder…and now the real work would begin.