Holt went directly to see Belinda. The administrator was on the phone and raised a finger to her lips as he approached.
“I understand,” she said to the caller on the phone. “But even though Mr. Granger is the district attorney, he can’t handle every case in the office. Mr. Douglas is a very competent attorney with plenty of trial experience.”
Belinda listened for a few more seconds. She looked at Holt and rolled her eyes.
“Mr. Douglas may look younger than your grandson, but I can assure you that he’ll do everything he can to make sure the defendant receives the punishment he deserves. I’ll let him know you called. Make sure you’re in the courtroom thirty minutes early on Monday morning.”
Belinda hung up the phone.
“What was that about?” Holt asked.
“A misdemeanor shoplifting case that’s on the arraignment calendar next week. That was the owner of the store. When she found out the case had been assigned to you, she got upset because Ralph isn’t personally taking care of it. She reminded me that she gave his campaign twenty-five dollars the last time he ran for reelection.”
“I agree with her,” Holt responded. “Ralph should definitely be lead prosecutor on that one. Who’s representing the defendant?”
“Clare Dixon was appointed to the case last week.”
“Another reason Ralph should handle it. After what happened in the Callaway case, Clare is going to be gunning for me with both barrels blazing.”
Belinda chuckled. “Overruled. But I don’t want you to be blindsided. The store owner wants the defendant sent to a prison where he’ll have to bust rocks for ten or fifteen years.”
“How old is the defendant?”
Belinda flipped open a folder on her desk. “Do you want to guess?”
“Eighteen and a half,” Holt replied. “Barely old enough for the case to get kicked up to superior court.”
“You’re off,” Belinda said, doing some quick mental calculations, “by forty-six years.”
“The defendant is sixty-four?”
“And a half,” Belinda added.
“What did he steal? Pain medication for his arthritis?”
Belinda glanced down again. “No, a six-pack of beer, a bag of corn chips, and some bean dip. He couldn’t post bond and has been in jail ever since his arrest last month.”
“Sounds like a house party that didn’t happen. Give me the file so I can call Clare. It’s costing the taxpayers a lot to keep him locked up.”
“Judge Lomax will know this guy. He’s had a bunch of petty stuff in his past.”
“Okay, but I came by to see you about somebody else.” Holt lowered his voice. “I just had a conversation in the conference room with a man named Burkdale. Do you know him?”
“Yeah, Cecil Burkdale. He’s a bookkeeper, but he used to be a hit man for Rex Meredith.”
“A hit man?” Holt raised his eyebrows.
“Not literally, of course. But Burkdale was the guy who’d kick people out of their houses and put them on the street if they missed a payment. I know because he wouldn’t give one of my nephews who lost his job a little extra time to catch up the rent. It really ticked me off, so I agreed to loan my nephew the money. Burkdale wouldn’t accept my payment until I also paid a bunch of late fees and a crazy attorney’s fee for a form letter sent by a lawyer at the Spratt firm.”
“He didn’t seem so hard-nosed to me.”
“He was. Burkdale is a little man who got some power and went crazy with it. When Greg Stevens took over Meredith Enterprises, one of the first things he did was fire him. Nobody felt sorry for Burkdale.”
“I didn’t expect you to know so much.”
Belinda tapped her head. “The Bible says to forgive, but that doesn’t mean I have to forget. What did he want with you?”
“To talk to me about a closed file. When he gave me his business card, I saw he was carrying a gun in a shoulder holster.”
“I’m sure he has a concealed weapon permit from his days of working for Mr. Meredith. But if he ever pulled a gun on someone, I’d put my money on the other guy jerking it out of his hand and pistol-whipping the little weasel with it.”
Holt had rarely heard Belinda speak so negatively about someone. He went to his office and pulled open the bottom drawer. The brief glimpse of Burkdale’s weapon had raised a question in his mind. Holt checked, and there was nothing in Butch Clovis’s report about ownership of the gun in Rex Meredith’s hand at the time of his death.
Wednesday afternoon, Keith came over to Trish’s house about an hour before it was time to leave for church. He had his laptop computer in his hand.
“I’ve done a lot more with the house plans since we visited the property on Sunday,” he said as she led the way to the kitchen table. “Where’s your mom?”
“Resting,” Trish said.
In reality, Marge had vacated the front part of the house so Trish and Keith could be alone.
“Is she okay?”
“Yes, she’s going to church later. Would you like something to drink?”
“Water would be great.”
Trish poured him a glass of ice water. Keith took a big drink.
“This water is delicious,” he said. “You’re on a well here, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well water can be so much better than city water.”
“Yeah, I like the taste,” Trish said. “But it’s not fun when the line to the house freezes in the winter. And the calcium levels are so high the towels come out of the wash terribly scratchy. Mama and I have talked about installing a whole-house water-softening unit, but they’re expensive and require a lot of upkeep.”
Trish couldn’t believe she was talking to Keith about water treatment issues, but he seemed vitally interested.
“What about washing your hair?” Keith asked.
Trish raised her eyebrows. “That’s kind of personal, but I use more shampoo than recommended on the bottle and extra conditioner,” Trish said and then burst out laughing.
“What is it?” Keith asked.
“I don’t know,” Trish said, trying to rein in her giggles. “It’s just so scientific sitting here and talking to you about how to cope with well water.”
“It is a big deal,” Keith replied. “We’re on city water at my parents’ house, but the property on Cockburn Road will require a well. I need to learn all I can from people who know about them.”
“What did Mr. Eakins say about his well?” Trish asked with a straight face, then started laughing again.
“The water table is high in that area, which isn’t surprising given the creek nearby. They didn’t have to drill very deep before they hit a good vein.”
“I guess not,” Trish said. “And your ability to try to have a conversation with me while I’m laughing like a child being tickled is amazing. I’ll try to get a grip so I can listen.”
Keith grinned. “I like hearing you laugh. If talking about drilling a well makes it happen, I’m not going to change the subject.”
“That’s sweet. But I think I’m under control now. Did Mr. Eakins say how many gallons an hour his well produces?”
No sooner had the words come out of her mouth than Trish exploded again with laughter. Giving way to her impulse, she sat back in her chair and laughed and laughed until there was nothing left. Keith waited patiently. Trish picked up a napkin and wiped her eyes.
“You know how something that isn’t funny can seem funny?” she asked when she’d regained a measure of control.
“Yeah, and I think this is one of those times.”
Trish nodded. “Let’s move on to the house plans. Maybe I can look at those and give you some legitimate feedback.”
Keith turned on his computer. While they waited for it to boot up, he took another drink of water. Trish watched. She knew if Keith said something about how good the water tasted she would lose it again. Thankfully, he remained silent. She scooted her chair closer to his. The wallpaper photo on Keith’s laptop appeared. It was a candid picture someone had taken of the two of them talking at the Sunday school Christmas party. Trish was wearing one of her favorite outfits.
“Who took that picture?” Trish asked in surprise at the photo and Keith’s use of it on his computer. “I haven’t seen it before.”
“Jerry Dunn. Remember, he was running around with the new camera he bought as a present for himself.”
“Can you send it to me?”
“Yes, and there are a few others, too.”
While they waited for the house plan program to load, Trish wondered if Keith had been greeted by her face every time he turned on his computer for the past six months.
“This is how the program works,” Keith said. “You put in parameters for square footage, number of bedrooms, bathrooms, et cetera. Then it gives options that can be manipulated until you come up with something you like. I’ve developed plans for several different-size houses that exclude a basement since I know that won’t be possible on this land. The program doesn’t just spit out a floor plan with dimensions. There’s a 3-D feature that lets you walk through the house as it would actually look. Would you like to see what I built last week when I was in Alabama?”
“Sure.”
While Trish watched, Keith opened a folder. In a few seconds the floor plan for a house popped up. Keith moved his cursor to the combination living room and den.
“This is a big open room that would face the creek, not the road. I don’t know if you noticed the other day, but there’s a line of trees along the creek that would pop with color in the fall. Beyond that is a pasture with a nice herd of Angus cattle. The large windows in this room face north, so there wouldn’t be a lot of direct sun to cause it to overheat.”
Trish’s eyes wandered to the kitchen, which was laid out galley-style and looked a little too narrow.
“Now look at it in 3-D,” Keith said.
He hit a button and the drawing came alive as if a camera were moving through the house. There was even fake furniture in place to give it a lived-in look.
“I like that sofa,” Trish said.
“Me too. That’s why I picked it.”
“You decorated the house?”
“Yeah, I’ve stored an inventory of furniture, and the program selects from that when furnishing the house.”
“Go to the kitchen,” Trish said.
As Keith moved the cursor, the camera traveled through a dining area and into the kitchen.
“Doesn’t that seem too narrow?” Trish asked.
“The walkway is three feet across.” Keith leaned closer to the computer screen. “But it can be expanded without changing anything except the laundry room and the garage. Let’s add two feet and see what you think.”
Trish watched the kitchen widen by one-third. “That makes a lot of difference,” she said.
“And adds seventy-seven hundred dollars,” Keith said, directing her attention to a bar at the bottom of the screen that projected construction costs.
“But there’s room for two people to be in there at once without running over each other.”
“I like that thought,” Keith said with a smile.
Keith rode to church with Trish and Marge. On the way home, they took a slight detour and drove past the property on Cockburn Road. The sun was setting and the trees along the creek cast long, spindly shadows on the rows of soybeans. After seeing the house plans, Trish’s level of interest was higher. She pulled onto the shoulder of the road.
“Are you worried the property might sell before you decide what to do?” Marge asked Keith.
“No,” Keith responded. “After we came over on Sunday, I signed an option that gives me the right to purchase it anytime I want within the next six months. It’s been on the market for a couple of years without any takers, and the seller was happy to work out a deal. I even negotiated a reduction of $750 an acre.”
Trish listened slightly wide-eyed. “This is going to happen, isn’t it?” she asked.
“It’s what I want. Not many people go from living at home to home ownership without an intermediate step or two.” He paused. “And the thought that I could drink my own well water sends me over the moon.”
Trish smiled. “That’s not going to work now. The time has passed.”
“The time for what has passed?” Marge asked.
“For me to be silly,” Trish replied. “I’m going to have to start pretending I’m an adult even if I don’t always act like it.”
Holt finished the last page of Tony McDermott’s report. There wasn’t much new in the packet from the former detective beyond a brief reference to Cecil Burkdale that included the bookkeeper’s phone number and a note from McDermott to follow up with a second interview. There was no mention of Claudine, the housekeeper, which increased Holt’s doubt about Burkdale’s description of the events on the night of Rex Meredith’s death.
Holt spent most of the morning making final corrections to his brief in the Sanford case. He felt good about his chances. Generally, the court of appeals didn’t disturb a jury’s verdict in a criminal trial, but no judge was completely predictable. He’d already seen cases in which a ruling at trial that didn’t seem crucial at the time turned out to be so when examined in the academic air of the appellate court.
For lunch he picked up a salad for himself, another for Angelina, and took the food to the salon. Brittany greeted him with a half-eaten apple in her hand. She put her fingers over her mouth as she swallowed. Angelina and Holt were scheduled for a double date with Brittany and Skip on Saturday night.
“I think there’s a piece of peel stuck in my teeth,” Brittany said from behind her hand.
“Don’t touch it. Skip Patrick thinks girls with stray bits of food in their mouths are super attractive.”
“Gross.” Brittany rubbed the front of her teeth with a tissue, then ran her tongue over them. “I think I got it.”
Holt leaned over the counter as she flashed a bright smile. “Blinding white,” he said. “And tell me, because Skip and I both want to know. How did you get to be so totally gorgeous?”
“Quit.” Brittany blushed.
“Whoa, I didn’t know I could make you blush with a compliment. That is going to be my new game—make Brittany blush in ten seconds or less.”
“Don’t, or I’ll tell Angelina something terrible about you.”
“What?”
“I’ll make it up.”
“Where is she? I’m the delivery boy for her lunch.”
“Finishing up with a customer. Go to the kitchen, and I’ll let her know you’re here.”
Holt headed toward the kitchen.
“Holt,” Brittany called after him, “thanks for setting this up with Skip. I know it may not lead anywhere, but my social life has been stuck in neutral for a while—actually, a long while—and it will be fun to do something, especially with you and Angelina.”
“We’re looking forward to it.”
“Just promise me that you and Skip won’t go off in a corner and talk about law stuff.”
“Only if you and Angelina promise not to talk about new shades of nail polish.”
Holt went into the kitchen. He knew not to wait for Angelina and started eating his salad. After a couple of bites, Angelina appeared in the doorway. Her countenance was a dark cloud.
“Starving?” she asked curtly, raising her eyebrows.
Holt swallowed his bite. “I would have waited,” he said, “but I didn’t know how long you’d be.”
Angelina sat down across from him at the little round table. Holt could tell she was ticked off. His first instinct was to ask why, but he knew that might make her madder because he didn’t know in advance why she was upset. There was nothing to do but wait until the storm clouds revealed the source of their rain. He ate another bite and watched her as she vigorously stirred the dressing into her salad.
“I can tell when you’re preoccupied,” Angelina said, “and if you’re hiding something from me.”
It was an obscure clue, but it was all Holt had to work with. The first thing that popped into his head was the Meredith investigation. Angelina stabbed her salad with vicious intensity.
“Eaten any good sandwiches lately?” she asked in a clipped tone of voice.
“Uh, I fixed a roast beef and Swiss cheese on rye for supper last night,” he said. “But what made it good was a farm-grown tomato I bought at that little stand beside the gas station on Eastway Drive.”
“Yeah.” Angelina nodded. “Eastway Drive. You’re getting hot.”
Mystified, Holt ignored his food. Angelina glared at him.
“The blond deputy sheriff,” she spit out. “The one we met at the steak house the other night. I knew in my bones she was interested in you when you introduced me to her, but I tried to ignore my instincts.”
“Trish Carmichael?”
“Yes. Am I supposed to be surprised that you remember her name?” Angelina shook her head angrily. “You ran out of here the other day after giving me a long kiss so you could meet her for dinner at the sandwich shop on Eastway Drive.”
“That was business.”
“That’s not the way it looked to my customer who came in this morning and asked if you and I were still dating. Unlike today, when you couldn’t wait for me before stuffing your face, she said you ignored your food and stared deep into Deputy Carmichael’s face with tears in your eyes.”
“Oh—” Holt started, then stopped. He wasn’t sure where to begin or end.
“Give it to me straight, Holt,” Angelina said, her lower lip quivering. “What’s going on and when were you going to tell me?”
“Nothing is going on between me and Trish Carmichael,” Holt said, trying to keep his voice calm. “She’s been helping me with an investigation into a cold case, and we needed to talk about it away from the sheriff’s department.”
“And this case makes you cry?”
“No”—Holt paused—“that was something else I’ve never mentioned to you.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Holt desperately wanted to call them back. “Not that I wouldn’t tell you,” he quickly added.
But it was too late. Angelina slammed shut the top of her salad container and stormed out of the kitchen.
“Angelina, wait!” Holt called after her.
She didn’t slow down but held up her hand to keep him from saying anything else. When she reached the door, she paused for a second and glared at him. Her face was red.
“Don’t call, text, or come by,” she said in a trembling voice. “I mean it.”
And with that, she was gone.