Miss Julia Lays Down the Law (25 page)

And pursuant to that determination and before I changed my mind or somebody changed it for me, I called the sheriff’s office in spite of the late hour and asked to speak with Detective Ellis. It seemed to take forever for him to come to the phone, and when he finally did, he sounded rushed and harassed.

“Yeah? This is Ellis.”

“Detective, this is Julia Murdoch. I know you’re busy with much more important matters, but I need to put my mind, and yours, at rest before I go to bed tonight. I want to come in and see you in the morning. I’m ready to confess.”

Dead silence. Then in a soft voice he said, “You are?”

“Yes, I’ve put it off long enough. Will you have time to see me about eight o’clock?”

“Mrs. Murdoch, I will
make
time. In fact, I can send a car for you right now.”

“Oh, no, don’t bother. I’m going to bed, and if you knew what kind of day I’ve had, you’d understand why. See you in the morning, Detective.” And I hung up, satisfied that I was about to clear my conscience and my name, and would most likely make his day as well. I slept like a baby.

 • • • 

The phone woke me a little after six the following morning, which ordinarily would have aggravated me no end. But it was Sam telling me that he was checking out of the hotel and would soon be on his way home. That was worth being rousted out of bed before daylight, so after urging caution on the interstate, I got up and began to dress for the day.

What does one wear to a confession? I knew exactly what to wear to a tea, a coffee, a soiree, a dinner party, to church, a funeral, a wedding, a reception, to go shopping, pay a visit, go to lunch, work in the yard, or just piddle around the house. I was, however, at a loss as to suitable attire for an official confession. Not, I assure you, that I had never confessed to anything before. Not at all, because I enumerated my sins of omission and commission every night of my life, but I doubted that a flannel gown and robe would be an appropriate costume for meeting with Detective Ellis.

So I settled for some woolen pieces and serviceable shoes, then went downstairs to plug in the coffee. And I guess that every time I did that from then on, I would recall unplugging Connie’s pot, as she was no longer able to do. I took that memory as a reminder to be grateful for the little things in life, no matter how routine or seemingly unimportant they might be.

Lillian and Latisha came in, stomping snow from their boots and shedding coats and gloves.

“No school again today, Miss Lady,” Latisha announced, dropping her book bag. “If this snow stick around till June, look like we’ll be out till next September, too.”

“I don’t think you can count on that, Latisha,” I said, smiling at the thought.

“You up mighty early,” Lillian said, addressing me. “Latisha, you go on in yonder an’ make me a picture with your color crayons. On a piece of paper, not on nothin’ else.”

“I know. I know.” And, picking up her bag, she started toward the library. “I ’spect I’ll need a snack pretty soon, though.”

Lillian rolled her eyes, then asked what I wanted for breakfast.

“Just the usual, thank you,” I said. “I have a busy morning ahead. I want to talk to Binkie first, then I’ll be going to the sheriff’s office and confess what they consider my misdeeds—although I consider my reticence in revealing certain privileged information indicative of the moral high ground.”

“You what?”

“I merely intend to clear up a few minor matters that seem to have loomed large in Detective Ellis’s mind, that’s all.”

“Miss Binkie know what you doin’?”

“I’m going right now to call her.”

And I did, only to get Gracie’s babysitter, who said that Binkie had already left to prepare for a court case due to be tried later in the day. Obviously, I thought, court did not run on the public school schedule, else it would call a snow day and lawyers and judges could color pictures, like Latisha, or make themselves available to their regular clients, like me.

 • • • 

So I showed up at the sheriff’s office without my attorney, but right on time, just as I’d promised Detective Ellis. I am a woman of my word, which had been consistently proven throughout the Clayborn investigation, and which, I might add, had thus far proven to be of some detriment to me.

Detective Ellis greeted me in a gracious, even solicitous, manner, ushered me into the interrogation room, inquired after my health, offered coffee, and quickly entered the usual information into his recorder.

“Now, Mrs. Murdoch,” he said, an eager glint in his eyes, “tell me in your own words just what happened when you went to see Ms. Clayborn last Tuesday.”

“Oh, I’ve already told you that. And in great detail, too. In fact, I told it to you twice, and nothing’s changed. Everything having to do with my actual visit happened just as I said.”

“But,” he said, frowning, “I thought you wanted to confess.”

“I do! That’s why I’m here. You see, Detective, I know that it’s been bothering you that I’ve been less than forthcoming about my
reason
for visiting Mrs. Clayborn. So I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear that I have now pronounced as null and void any promise I may have made heretofore concerning that reason, so I consider myself free of any moral restraint whatsoever.”

“Uh, run that by me again?”

“I told the one to whom I had made a promise
not
to tell that I was going to tell. Which is what I am now doing.”

“You are?”

“Yes. You see, Detective, ideally he would’ve released me from that promise on his own, especially when keeping the promise not to tell put me in such an uneasy position with you. Instead of stepping up to the plate, though, he avoided me at every turn, and the more he avoided me, the less I felt obliged to keep my promise.” I stopped and considered that for a minute. “I tell you, I have had a moral struggle about to whom I owed the greatest obligation—to you, who wanted me to tell, or to him, who didn’t. The only way to solve it was to track him down and tell him I was going to tell—you know, to warn him. It was the least and the best I could do under the circumstances. So I have now done that and formally renounced my promise of silence, and I’m ready to tell you what you’ve been wanting to know.”

“I am more than ready to hear it, believe me.”

“All right, here goes, and I hope the Lord forgives me if I’ve made the wrong decision. I’ve already told you that I called Connie Clayborn the morning of that fateful day, but what I didn’t tell you was that it wasn’t to thank her for her previous invitation, as I led you to believe. I called her because I’d been
asked
to.” And I went on to tell Detective Ellis about Emma Sue’s sad decline as she grieved over the town park and about Pastor Ledbetter’s increasing concern about her. “He asked me to attempt to get Connie to apologize for her scalding criticism of Emma Sue’s efforts on the park. Which was all well and good because Connie
should
have apologized. She went way over the line in what she said, and it just stabbed Emma Sue to the heart.

“Not literally, of course. But then, when he started in on the possibility of Satanic influence, I began to have second thoughts about getting involved.”

“Satanic?” Detective Ellis perked up at that.

I waved my hand in a brushing gesture. “Oh, I discounted that right away. Connie was just ill informed and insensitive to the feelings of others, that’s all. Poorly brought up, too, I would imagine. Anyway, I thought I could do some good by talking with her, not only to relieve Emma Sue’s distress but also to help Connie fit in a whole lot better than she was doing on her own. But, Detective, here’s the heart of my confession.”

“Oh, good,” Detective Ellis said, his shoulders sagging.

“I
welcomed
the request to speak to Connie because I wanted to give her a taste of her own medicine. I’m sorry to admit this because it reflects badly on me, but the truth of the matter was that I
longed
to tell her how cruel she’d been, how unthinking and unkind. So, with the mission I’d been given, I had the perfect opportunity to cut her down to size by letting her know how unlikely it was that she’d ever be invited to join the garden club or the book club or even to be invited for dinner anywhere.”

“Oh, my,” Detective Ellis murmured.

“Yes. So, you see, I harbored ill will toward her because I’d had as much to do with that park as Emma Sue had, and I was deeply offended by Connie’s criticism. But, Detective, I never got to say another word to her after we hung up that morning. She was gone by the time I got there that afternoon. She never knew my real feelings.”

“Okay, then,” Detective Ellis said with something like a sigh, “let me get this straight. You went to see Ms. Clayborn because Mr. Ledbetter asked you to, and he asked you to because his wife’s feelings were hurt, and you were glad to do it because your feelings were hurt, too, and you wanted to hurt Ms. Clayborn’s feelings. That about it?”

“Not quite. You’re not getting the underlying factors, Detective. It was more than just a few women’s hurt feelings, as you imply.” I stopped, breathed deeply, and plunged ahead. “I hate having to tell on people, Detective. I hope you understand that I take no pleasure in exposing the secrets of others. But the motive of Pastor Ledbetter in sending me to Connie was his deep concern that his ministry was being compromised by his own inability to snap Emma Sue out of her depression. His situation is addressed in either First or Second Timothy—the exact reference escapes me now—so he was, in a sense, fighting to sustain his irreproachable standing within the church. And besides,” I went on, cringing as I piled onto my own pastor, “he grew up in Abbot County and may have known about the fire lane behind the Clayborn house.”

Detective Ellis sat straight up. “Huh,” he said.

“Well, but Connie’s husband also obviously knew about it, too, having lived right below it for some time. And in spite of his noticeable grief for his wife, epitomized by his attempt to commune with her by way of leftover positive energy
in the house
while it was still a crime scene, all was not in perfect harmony within that marriage.”

“No?” Detective Ellis’s eyes widened at the news.

“No. Mr. Clayborn told me on what I hope was his last night run by my house that he and Connie agreed on everything except architectural design and . . .”

As the door suddenly opened, I looked up. Sergeant Coleman Bates stuck his head in, gave me a brief nod, then said, “See you a minute, Detective?”

Detective Ellis stood, scooped up his notes and his recorder, and started to leave. “Have a rest, Mrs. Murdoch. I won’t be long.”

So I waited, but rested hardly at all. Coleman had barely acknowledged me, which I put down to his official manner. Still, his serious demeanor had done nothing to reassure me, even though I’d now told everything I knew, including my heretofore untold motive for visiting Connie, the harsh feelings I’d held toward her, and the suspicious ones I still harbored toward her husband and my own pastor.

They say that confession is good for the soul, but if that were so, why, after revealing all that had burdened me, was I not feeling so good about having done it?

After several lonely minutes, the door swung open and Coleman came in, Detective Ellis right behind him, and Lieutenant Peavey stopping in the doorway.

“Miss Julia,” Coleman said, putting his hands on the table and leaning toward me. “You don’t have to do this—you may want to consult your attorney or you may not want to do it at all—but I’m asking you to bear with me and help me conduct a little experiment. You know I’ve been off for several days, so I’ve just had the opportunity to study the crime scene evidence—the forensics, the scene drawings, the investigators’ notes, the statements that were given, and so on. There’s a big question mark in the notes that, with your help, I want to try to answer.”

“Why, Coleman, you know I’ll help any way I can.”

“Okay. Here’s the problem: you left a partial finger- and palm print in a smear of blood on the granite countertop above the head of the victim. The assumption has been that you got the blood on your hand from one of the puddles or spatters on the floor or on the victim, then transferred it to the countertop. I’d like to see how that happened. Would you be willing to show us exactly what you did when you walked in and found Ms. Clayborn on the floor?”

“Well,” I said hesitantly, my eyes darting around, “I’m not sure I can recall
exactly
what I did. I was in a state of shock when I realized that she was no longer with us, and I was kind of operating on instinct or impulse or something. More or less.”

“We understand that,” Coleman said in a kindly tone, “and this is all unofficial—no notes and no recordings will be made. I just want to see if what I suspect will prove to be true, and whether it will or not, either way, it will not damage you or your testimony.”

“Well,” I said again as I looked into Coleman’s honest eyes, “I trust you, Coleman, so I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Good. Let’s walk down to the lab.” He took my arm and led me out into the hall, where I saw a number of deputies gathered around, Lieutenant Peavey towering over all. We led the convoy halfway down the hall and turned into the department’s laboratory. A wall of cheap kitchen cabinets with black Formica countertops, centered by a sink with rust stains, ran down the right side of the room. The flock of deputies crowded into the other side.

“Okay,” Coleman said, stopping me short of the cabinets. “Deputy Caine, please assume the position.” There was a murmur of laughter as a woman deputy carefully lowered herself to the floor, where I saw that an outline of Connie’s body had been drawn in chalk. Deputy Caine was about Connie’s size and, with Coleman’s help, she arranged herself within the outline. And as she did, my mind flashed back to what I had found, and I could almost see Connie again as she lay half on her stomach, one side of her face with its one eye staring ahead, one knee pulled up, and one shod foot sticking out beyond the end of the cabinets.

I blinked away the association, noting to myself that Deputy Caine was clad in a dark navy uniform consisting of long pants and boots, and not clunky shoes and a dress that was hiked up to reveal pink nylon step-ins—which I doubted Deputy Caine would have had on even if Coleman had gone so far as to explicitly re-create the scene by exposing her undergarments.

Coleman crouched beside her, adjusting her position in small ways, a nudge here and a nudge there, then he looked her over. “Comfy?” he asked.

“Just get on with it,” she told him.

“All right,” he said, standing and looking around the expectant audience. “We’ve got to use our imaginations a little here. This cabinet right here,” he said, pointing to the door above and to the side of Deputy Caine’s head, “represents the dishwasher, which is located on the right side of the sink cabinet both here and in the Clayborn kitchen. Notice that the victim’s head is pretty much aligned with the join between the dishwasher and the next cabinet. See that, Miss Julia?”

I nodded, trying to visualize a stainless steel dishwasher door instead of a stained plywood cabinet. “I see it, but I can’t swear to it.”

“That’s all right. We can, because measurements were taken and drawings were made, and I’ve reproduced them here. Now, Miss Julia, you come over and squat down beside the victim in the same place and position as you did that day. Then I want you to go through the motions—as well as you remember them—just as you did then.”

He stepped back and I stepped forward, reluctantly, I admit, for I had no real desire to go through those awful minutes again, even if I could recollect my exact movements.

“Well,” I said, “I know I squatted down beside her. Like this.” And I carefully adjusted my feet near, but not touching, Deputy Caine and resumed the position I’d taken as well as I could, in spite of creaking joints and aching muscles. “I called her name, then I touched her shoulder. Like this.” Deputy Caine’s shoulder was soft and warm, not at all like the feel of Connie’s shoulder. “Then I pulled down her skirt tail, which I now know I shouldn’t have done, but at the time I was trying to save her some embarrassment, not knowing that she no longer cared about such things.” I went through the motions of pulling down a skirt.

“And,” Coleman asked, “you were still crouched beside the body?”

“Oh, yes, I hadn’t moved an inch and my limbs were letting me know it, too. But there was so much blood coming from under her head and so many spatters around that I was very careful not to move around in them. But then, just as I realized that Connie was actually dead, the power went off and the lights went out.” I shuddered, swept again by the fear I’d experienced in those moments.

“So what did you do when that happened?”

“I had only one thought, and that was to get out and away. Squatting there beside a dead acquaintance in the dark, I heard what I thought was a shuffling movement, and I was scared out of my mind.”

“We understand,” Coleman said. “So try to react just as you did then. You heard something. You were frightened. Don’t tell us. Show us what you did.”

I closed my eyes and relived those frightful moments so that they seemed to be happening again and, in spite of having determined never to put such a strain on my protesting knees again, I put my right hand on the floor and reached with the other one for the countertop. By pushing with one and pulling with the other, along with a wrenching of stiff joints and quivering muscles, I managed to gain my feet and turn toward the crowd of deputies, ready to flee the scene as I’d done before.

“See that!” Coleman said to the onlookers. “That’s what I thought happened. Show us your hand, Miss Julia.”

I turned both hands up and, to my surprise, my left palm and fingers were smeared with a dark powdery substance. “What did I do? What is this?”

“Fingerprint powder,” Coleman said, a smile of satisfaction on his face. “It’ll come off.” He handed me a paper towel.

Turning to the deputies, he went on. “Miss Julia has just shown us what I think happened. Forensics checked every spatter and pool of blood in that kitchen, looking for where her hand picked up the blood and then transferred it to the edge of the counter. But they didn’t find anything, because she didn’t transfer it. She just happened to take hold of the countertop at the exact spot where Ms. Clayborn’s head hit when I think she fell. And since the countertop is black granite, Miss Julia wouldn’t have noticed the blood. So when she grasped the counter edge and pulled on it to stand up, the blood got smeared to look like a transfer. And I’m convinced the medical examiner can prove that the impact of the victim’s head on the edge of that granite counter both fractured the skull and caused the cut across the wound.”

“She
fell
?” I asked in wonderment. “Nobody killed her?”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Coleman said. “And a second look by forensics may prove it.” Turning aside, he said, “You can get up now, Deputy.” And Deputy Caine got to her feet in one swift, graceful movement—so different from my awkward rise.

“One more question, Miss Julia,” he went on. “When did you close the dishwasher door?”

“Close it? I didn’t close it. It was closed when I got there.”

“Right. Now, here’s the thing,” Coleman went on. “When the first responders got there, the dishwasher door was closed—not locked, just closed, and nobody questioned it because the only fingerprints on it were Ms. Clayborn’s. But a second, more careful look turned up a small smear of blood on the
inside
of the door near the corner. I’m suggesting that Ms. Clayborn had climbed onto a chair—there was one overturned—and perhaps up onto the counter itself to reach the high cabinets. Somehow or another, she slipped and fell, hitting her head on the sharp edge of the counter, then bouncing off the corner of the open dishwasher door. From there, she fell to the floor into the position we found her, and I’m suggesting that the impact of her head on the corner of the door caused the second wound on the forehead—the bruise—and also caused the door to spring closed when she fell to the floor. I think we can prove that by seeing what the door does when it’s given a fairly heavy lick at the same spot.”

Even though I was still in a daze of awe and confusion at Coleman’s proposition, and still wiping black powder off my hand, I could see the nods and smiles among the deputies. It made sense to them and even to Lieutenant Peavey, who had not just a smile but a grin on his face. Case solved.

 • • • 

“How did you figure all that out?” I asked as I stood with Coleman at the door leading out of the sheriff’s office. I was just before leaving for home, having been assured that neither I nor anyone else was a suspect in the death of Connie Clayborn.

“From watching you crawl out of my tent and using me as ballast or leverage or whatever to get to your feet. In other words, I saw that you needed help of some kind to get up, and when I read your description of what you did that day in the Clayborn kitchen, it just made sense that you’d reach for something to pull yourself up with.” He smiled with well-deserved but unassuming pride. “Just paying attention to detail was what it amounted to.”

“More than that, Coleman, more than that.” I pressed his hand, gave him a grateful smile, and started to open the door. “Oh, I almost forgot,” I said, turning back, “will you be seeing Lamar Owens anytime soon?”

“Without a doubt.”

“I want to make sure he has a hat or scarf or something. You lose a lot of heat through your head, you know. If you’ll see to it, I’ll repay you for whatever you get.”

Coleman smiled. “We’ll find him something. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, one more thing, Coleman.” I stood with my hand on the door, ready to leave but still troubled by questions. “How can you be sure that Connie Clayborn fell? She could’ve been pushed or thrown against the counter, couldn’t she?”

“Could’ve, yes. But remember, she wasn’t a small woman, so think of what it would take to push or throw her with enough force against the counter to cause the kind of wound she had. And remember—well, you may not know this, but the autopsy showed no bruises or handprints or other evidence that would’ve been there if someone had grasped her and thrown or pushed her. I know you thought you heard somebody in the house, but they found no evidence of anybody. There’ll be an inquest, I expect, but it’s looking accidental.”

“Well, I guess it’s a relief that no one is getting away with murder. But, I declare, Coleman, I wish you’d come up with this several days ago. You would’ve saved a lot of wear and tear on my nerves.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well, I was sign sitting. But the guys would’ve gotten it sooner or later.”

I wasn’t too sure about that, but I thanked him again, wished him a good day, and, finally, walked out the door of the sheriff’s department—a free woman, thanks to him.

I stopped beside my car, a sudden thought blooming in my mind—Roberta had said all along that Coleman should’ve been on the case. Maybe she wasn’t as balmy as I’d thought.

I left then, but on my way home a few questions raised their ugly heads. What was Connie’s husband really doing in his house the night that Lamar Owens and I had also shown up there? Communing and computing just didn’t seem answer enough. And speaking of Lamar, what had happened to his beloved scarf, begrimed though it was, but also laden with my fingerprints? Coleman had not mentioned those fingerprints, so had they not been found, or had the deputies decided that the scarf had no bearing on what they were thinking at the time was a murder case?

Furthermore, were the deputies still looking for who or what had set off the house alarms? Or would Lamar’s scarf give them a reason to assume that he’d been the likely burglar who’d been scared off by the lights and sirens? I’d hate for him to be blamed for something that had essentially been my idea and, thus, my fault, even though Lamar had never seemed the least concerned about the possibility of lengthening his arrest record.

I would watch out for him, though, and if the presence of that scarf near a crime scene came back to haunt him, I would confess to my sudden urge to wash the filthy thing, and I would also confess my part in our trek along the fire lane. Until and unless that happened, I decided, I would just keep it to myself. But even if it did come up, all they could pin on me or him concerning that fiasco was a misdemeanor trespassing charge, and I had a good lawyer. When I could find her.