Twelve
“This whole thing is ludicrous,” Sherry said almost three hours later, shaking her head. She shifted on her seat, opened her briefcase, and took out a collection of papers. She searched desperately for something.
They were in Garrett Station’s only conference room: Hewitt, Stephanie, and a state police detective Peyton had never seen before were on one side the table. Sherry, attorney Len Landmark, Sherry’s husband, Dr. Chip Duvall, and Fred Jr. sat across from them.
Peyton and Maine State Police Detective Karen Smythe sat on folding chairs along the far wall.
Fred had his hands before him, the metal cuffs clicking lightly against the tabletop. Landmark had an iPad propped before him and scrolled through his notes.
But it was Sherry who Peyton noticed. Peyton watched Sherry shuffle and reshuffle papers frantically, her eyes racing from the stack of uncooperative papers to Stephanie. Why was she focused so singularly on Stephanie? Because Stephanie was the opposing attorney, or because Stephanie sat as confidently as one preparing for a card trick they’d done a thousand times?
Sherry stared at Stephanie as if it were only the two of them in the room. Somehow, for some unknown reason, this wasn’t about Freddy anymore. What was Sherry trying to prove to Stephanie? And why was it necessary?
Whatever was taking place between the two women was lost on Stephanie, who was ever organized and tougher than two scorpions. She looked at Sherry, puzzled.
Peyton wondered if this was the same Dr. Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall who lectured at a university, traveled extensively, and published books. This version of Sherry looked confused and kept turning to Chip for reassurance. He nodded, and she continued.
“My brother is guilty of nothing,” Sherry suddenly demanded.
Peyton had never met Sherry’s husband, but she didn’t like the way Chip patted her thigh, as if calming a nervous Irish setter during a thunderstorm.
“Sherry,” attorney Len Landmark said, “let me handle this. It’s what you’re paying me for.”
Sherry turned to Chip once again. He nodded, and she gave way.
“I get so sick of wearing blue every day,” Karen Smythe whispered, leaning close to Peyton. “At least with green, you guys can accessorize a little. Every winter hat I own has to be dark.”
“The last winter hat I bought came from Marden’s,” Peyton said, mentioning the surplus and salvage chain store known statewide. “Not sure I’d call that accessorizing. And thanks again for taking on Hewitt for me.”
“Stop saying that.”
“No one else has gone to bat for me.”
“No one else was there. It’s why you don’t need to thank me. I genuinely think Hewitt’s going too far if you get a formal reprimand. I’m not getting one. You did nothing to warrant that.”
Peyton checked her phone, making sure it was set to Silent. She motioned to the detective. “What happened to Leo Miller?”
“Out of his league. Pulled off the case.”
“This new guy looks young,” Peyton said.
“And cute as hell. Looks younger than he is, though. He’s about thirty-five. Very competent. And single”—she eyed Peyton and smirked—“if that matters to you.”
“A lot of media in town, huh?” Peyton said. “I got four calls at home about the murder-suicide.”
“That a ‘no comment’ regarding the cute-as-hell new detective?”
“A lot of media, huh?” Peyton said again, but she was looking at the detective, while her mind lurched to Pete Dye and to how they’d left things between them.
“We’d like the First-Degree Murder charge dismissed,” Landmark said.
“Good luck with that,” Karen whispered.
Peyton had grown up with Sherry St. Pierre, but most of her childhood memories also involved Pete Dye. He’d been a neighbor. And, as he’d said, she’d invited him to her wedding. The thing Pete hadn’t mentioned, though, was the night at Madawaska Lake: a May evening during their senior year at the University of Maine, when the bonfire had died, when Jeff had left the party early, and when she and Pete sat at the end of the dock, feet dangling in the sunfish-rippled water at three in the morning.
He’d leaned in to kiss her. And it was she who’d pulled back that night. How would her life be different now if she’d not honored her relationship with Jeff on that dock?
“We’re not dropping any charges,” Stephanie said.
“Look, you get very few murders up here,” Landmark said, “so I just want you to know that I can—and will—prove that Mr. St. Pierre Jr. is nothing more than a hard-working, carefree soul, who loved and still lived with his parents. And I will show that he was a close friend of Simon Pink. Counselor, you’re wasting the state’s money. You need to rethink this.”
“Don’t you dare patronize me,” Stephanie said. “I’ve got a degree from Harvard Law and worked on Beacon Street for Little and Little for ten years before coming back to northern Maine.”
“You aren’t the only professional woman here,” Sherry said.
Stephanie had been about to say something more to Landmark, but turned to Sherry and stared, confused.
Chip patted Sherry’s thigh again, and she settled back into her chair.
“I don’t like that,” Karen whispered. “He pats her like a damned dog.”
Peyton was about to agree when Chip said, “Ms. DuBois, no one is questioning your credentials. We’re worried about saving the taxpayers’ money.”
“Just exactly who are you?” Stephanie asked.
“I’m Sherry’s husband, but that’s not important—”
“Chip,” Sherry said, “I can speak for myself.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll handle this.”
“Actually,” Landmark said, “I’m your attorney. I’ll do the talking, Chip.”
“And Sherry’s paying you,” Chip said. “And from what I see so far, she’s overpaying you. So we’ll do things my way.”
“This is so typical,” Sherry said, but there was no bite in her voice; she was pleading. “This is my brother—my family—can you let me have control?” She looked away and spoke to herself, but Peyton heard her: “For once, goddamnit, let me have control.”
“Both of you,” Len Landmark said, “it’s time to be quiet. Stephanie and I will discuss this case.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Sherry said with finality to Chip, who momentarily glared at her, then turned to stare out the window like a man searching for something.
“Here’s the bottom line, counselor,” Landmark continued. “Our client was at the Tip of the Hat bar at the time of the murder.”
“What?” Karen whispered to Peyton. “He told you he was with Nancy Lawrence, right?”
“Yes.”
Hewitt turned and glanced at Peyton. She replied by offering a quick shake of the head, which Landmark failed to register.
Hewitt leaned toward Stephanie and whispered.
“What is it?” Landmark said.
Stephanie ignored him.
“Well,” Landmark went on, “the evidence is entirely circumstantial. And you have no witnesses.”
Stephanie could be ruthlessly blunt. Peyton had always appreciated her lack of bullshit. But even she was surprised by Stephanie’s next play.
“I have to be in court in twenty minutes, Len.” She smiled politely, wiping a few gray dog hairs from her blazer. “We’ll talk again later, I’m sure.”
“So you’re taking this forward?”
“We have a murder, an arson investigation, and a murder-suicide,” she said. “I think it’s a safe bet to assume we will take this forward, yes.”
“They’re separate cases, Stephanie.”
Stephanie slid her yellow pad into her briefcase.
“And your evidence in the murder is entirely circumstantial,” Landmark repeated.
“We have the .22 slug and, according to the ballistics report, the gun from which it was fired,” she said.
“The killer took my brother’s gun,” Sherry insisted. “Can’t you see that? What’s wrong with you?”
Stephanie looked at her for a long moment. Peyton thought she saw pity in the DA’s eyes.
Finally, Stephanie stood. “Like I said, I need to be in court in twenty. Good day.”