6:23 p.m.
Dallas wrapped an arm around Evelyn’s waist, pretending it was to distract her while he reached to dip a spoon in the simmering peanut soup.
“Sheriff’s going to love this.” He’d persuaded Gardner to join them for dinner, since he had to eat and they could relay what they’d learned at the same time. He doubted his efforts to get information out of Gardner would succeed, but at least the man wouldn’t fall over from hunger.
“Where are they?” she asked.
“J.D.’s washing up. Maggie’s at the guesthouse.”
Evelyn relaxed against him. “Dallas, you be careful with that young lady.”
“Mmm. I have no earthly idea what you might be referring to.”
“I know you’re up to something. I also know that young woman is smarter than you’re crediting her for. I know one more thing — she’s got her own devils, which are complications you might not see until they tow you under.”
“That’s two more things.”
She reached back and slapped at his posterior. “Remember what I said.”
“Evelyn DuPree, marry me.”
“No.” No hesitation, no thought. As if she had more important things on her mind.
It stung.
“Why not?”
With her dark eyes on him he realized he’d never asked that before. Asked her to marry him, yes. But never her reasons for refusing.
He repeated it, oddly urgent. “Why not? I love you, you love me.”
“You’re taking a lot for granted. I’ve never said—”
“You wouldn’t sleep with me if you didn’t love me, and you wouldn’t sleep with me if you didn’t know I love you. So, don’t get swelled up like I’ve insulted you. I know your boys won’t like it, but I won’t come between you and them — if that means you going to see them without me, that’s how it’ll be. I won’t make you change your life for me. But I could give you things, make life more comfortable for you.”
Using a towel on the handle, she moved the soup to a cool burner with exquisite care. “What about you, Dallas Herbert? Will life be more comfortable for you?”
“Are you saying you think I want to marry you to have my housekeeper on hand? Is—?”
“Don’t throw your lawyer voice at me.”
He waited.
“You think those folks who come and pay your fees because they like saying Dallas Monroe is their lawyer will keep coming round?”
“If they don’t—”
“Don’t you say it. Because it’s those folks with money in their pockets and willing to put it in your pockets who make it so you can be the lawyer for the other kind of folks.” She cupped his cheek in her warm palm. “The folks who need you more than they know.”
She looked out the window and dropped her hand. He saw Maggie approaching the back door. “There’s more to be said on this matter.”
“No, there’s not,” she contradicted. “I know you’d get by without the important folks, and I might let you do it, too. But you can’t get by without the other ones — the ones who need you. And I won’t let you try.”
* * * *
Maggie completed her last email and headed to the bathroom to wash her face.
Having handled necessities from her current caseload, she could concentrate on Commonwealth of Virginia v. J.D. Carson.
She wished she had the final transcript to go over tonight. Instead, she’d be filling in her notes from today and continuing with materials from the file box Roy delivered, including the piecemeal daily transcripts.
One thing for sure, whether the certified version Scott would provide or the dailies from her files, this transcript would not be a fun read.
She blotted her face dry and hung the towel.
At the jury trial she’d prosecuted after v. J.D. Carson, she’d watched the burglary defendants, with their would-be tough-guy slouches, and waited for the verdict.
No question came into her mind.
No whisper about innocence.
Nothing except satisfaction at the “Guilty.”
That weekend, she’d read the Carson trial transcript for the first and only time.
What had made the difference were her mistakes. That’s why the jury decided she hadn’t wiped away reasonable doubt, the reason they set Carson free.
One of her bigger mistakes was Teddie Barrett.
Hit and run accident. Though how they can call it an accident when somebody’s so evil he doesn’t stop to help, especially a soul as harmless as Teddie Barrett.
She thought of Teddie’s face as he’d giggled at her calling him Mr. Barrett. And she thought of his mother.
Maggie sat on the window seat, staring out. Other than the reflection of the bedside lamp, it showed only dark, yet the dark seemed to move with the wind in the trees on the opposite bank.
She had tried to get the trial’s lunch break timed immediately after Teddie’s statement that he’d recognized Pan’s and Carson’s voices, letting it sink in with the jury.
But she’d gone through his testimony too fast. That let Dallas get started. During the break, jurors chewed over Teddie saying he’d been told his memory came from the day of the murder.
Chewed it over and swallowed it.
After lunch it went from bad to worse.
That damned video. She fought it. But Judge Blankenship allowed it. It had been recorded only two days before Pan’s murder as part of a commercial series on waterfalls of the South. A company spokesman testified nothing on it was altered.
Still, she should have fought harder. She should have kept it out. Somehow.
* * * *
9:56 p.m.
Charlotte scratched “crab puffs” from her menu for the memorial gathering that would have to suffice until authorities released the body.
Allarene insisted on too much garlic in her crab puffs. Last thing needed, with the hugging and cheek-kissing, was everyone’s breath reeking.
The mini spinach tarts would do. Laurel hated them, but then, she wouldn’t be there.
Soon enough she’d be buried deep in the earth of Bedhurst Cemetery. Odd to think of Laurel lying still beside Mama, solitary in the silk-lined coffin Charlotte was almost certain would be her selection.
Odd to think of Laurel lying solitary anywhere.
That was what those people had been getting at — Laurel was a slut. That’s what they’d wanted her to say.
She would have. She had no trouble speaking the truth about her sister. But she’d looked ahead and seen where it might lead — like the crab puffs and garlic breath. She’d refused to be drawn into a discussion of Laurel’s indiscretions.
Indiscretions? As if she’d ever had discretion.
Not since she’d been thirteen years old and Charlotte had seen her with that delivery man in the back of the old garage.
Charlotte, nearly seventeen, hadn’t been kissed, and there was her little sister fucking the help.
“Honey? Aren’t you coming to bed?”
She did wish her husband wouldn’t say honey. It was common. Sweetheart or darling or — her mouth pursed — babe were no better. That was why she did not ask him to drop honey. He would have if she asked, but the danger was he would fall into worse.
“I have a number of things to do still.”
“You’re running yourself ragged, honey. You don’t have to do it all. Tell me and I’ll do whatever you need.”
Of course, she had to do it. No one else could be relied on to handle things correctly.
“I’m fine, Edward.”
“Okay. Uh. I, uh, I thought I’d go to the office tomorrow. Unless, of course, you need me here.”
“No, that will be fine.”
His office and, by extension, the courtroom defined him. It was what had brought Edward Smith to her notice.
Besides, she had a full slate of appointments tomorrow about arrangements for the memorial and eventual funeral. Edward would be underfoot.
It occurred to her that if he didn’t die beforehand, she would need a detailed plan for his retirement.
He patted her hand, the motion slightly awkward, despite three years of marriage, then kissed her on the cheek. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of his attire, and her gaze followed as he straightened.
Why he insisted on these pale blue cotton pajamas instead of the burgundy silk she’d bought…
“Good night, honey. Don’t work too hard.”
Not even a robe.
* * * *
Dallas sipped his wine, staring at Ruth’s silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece.
Every time Evelyn dusted and left them angled, with the silver bowl slightly in front, he returned them to side by side, in line with the bowl, the way Ruth liked.
That and refusing to marry him were Evelyn’s only flaws.
The day Ruth hired Evelyn, she said Evelyn had a lot of good qualities. All he’d cared about was the quality of her fried chicken, and that Ruth was pleased.
They’d been friendly, but it was until a year and more after Ruth passed they’d started their talks.
A case came where he was sure old Sheriff Hague coerced a confession. The defendant denied it.
He’d been in his chair, reading files. Evelyn came in with her coat on, surely to say good night. “Trouble, Mr. M?”
“Yes.”
She’d unbuttoned her coat, sat on the couch, and waited.
He’d talked.
Two days later, when her leaving time came, she’d brought in two glasses of Madeira, sat in the same spot, and he’d talked more.
Then she pointed out his defendant was alone since his elderly mother died and the sheriff was feeding him three squares a day, making him the closest thing to a friend the man had.
Eventually, he realized she’d been his best friend for years. Only looking back did he realize that at the moment he’d recognized friendship, he’d already loved her.
Sometimes he wondered what Ruth would say.
She’d treated every soul with kindness and dignity. And she held Evelyn in high regard. But she hadn’t been much of one for folks pairing up outside their race, class, or church. She liked things neat that way.
Like candlesticks side by side.
Evelyn liked angles, unsymmetrical yet balanced. Over the years, he’d encouraged her to arrange things how she liked. To look out from his chair at all her touches made him feel as if she were here even when she wasn’t.
Except the candlesticks. Those remained Ruth’s way.
Commonwealth v. J.D. Carson
Witness Theodore Barrett (prosecution)
Cross-Examination by Mr. Monroe
Q. Teddie, is that what the falls sounded like the day you say you heard those voices arguing?
A. Sure, that’s what they sound like every day.
Mr. Monroe: No further questions.
Ms. Frye: Redirect, Your Honor?
THE COURT: Go ahead, Ms. Frye.
Ms. Frye: Did you hear voices at Bedhurst Falls about 6 p.m. August 12th?
A. Like I told you—
Q: You need to answer yes or no, Mr. — Teddie.
A. But—
Q: Did you hear voices at Bedhurst Falls, yes or no?
A. Sure. Like I said, I—
Q. Are you convinced that the day you heard them was August 12th, the day Mrs. Wade was killed there, yes or no?
A. Yes. And—
Q. Are you convinced those voices belonged to Mrs. Wade and the defendant.
A. Pan and J.D., yeah.
* * * *
9:58 p.m.
That damned video.
The narrator’s voice had shouted to be heard over the rush of the falls. People in the background appeared to yell, yet no sound came through.
All was drowned by the rush and roar of the falls.
Teddie had been unperturbed, clearly not recognizing Monroe had wiped out his credibility, along with his testimony.
That was the only night of the Carson trial she hadn’t gone directly from the courtroom to the office to prep for the next day.
She’d ditched Ed, almost incoherent with apologizing for not seeing the flaw in Teddie’s testimony. “I’m more local. I should have known,” he’d said over and over.
She’d driven to the crime scene, and seen how she’d screwed up.
From where Pan Wade was murdered, you couldn’t hear the falls. On the map, they were close. But as she’d followed the path, she’d realized it dropped sharply to where the falls sat in a sort of natural amphitheater, concentrating their sound, while blocking out sounds from beyond.
Standing there, Teddie couldn’t have heard dynamite explode on the service road, much less voices arguing.
Either Teddie hadn’t been where he’d said he was, or he hadn’t heard those voices. He had no reason to make up the story. So, most likely, he had heard them, and he’d confused which path he’d been on.
It made no difference to the trial, because his testimony had been shredded into confetti.
And she’d let it happen. She should have prepared better. She should not have allowed herself to be lulled by Teddie’s earnestness.
She’d vowed to never again be caught like that.
The phone rang.
Not her phone, but a clunky, black old-fashioned twin for the living room phone. This one hunched on the small nightstand on the far side of the bed.
“Frye,” she answered.
Nothing.
“Frye,” she repeated, less patiently.
Still nothing.
“Hello.” No static, no clicking, no feeling of dead air.
She disconnected with her thumb, her thoughts returning to their earlier track.
She’d let Dallas lead her around too much today.
She was the prosecutor. Setting out the case, calling the moves.
Let them react to her.
Instead of looking at the victims for a connection, what if the connection — if there was one — was the murderer. Who had reason to kill both Pan and Laurel? A lover, spurned or otherwise, of course. Who el—
The phone on the bedside table rang again.
She pulled her briefcase to her with one hand while picking up the heavy receiver with the other. Said hello.
As it registered that once more no one was responding, she flipped open her briefcase.
She sucked in a breath and didn’t let it go.
The plastic envelope, the one always kept in the pocket of the lid, instead sat atop the files in the bottom of the briefcase. Not the way she’d left it.
Through the clear covering, a photo that had never been in that envelope. An autopsy photo of Pan Wade’s dead face.