Mittman, Stephanie (45 page)

He
could hear the rustling of her skirts, the tapping of her feet, the slap of her
hands against the courtroom doors, and she hurried out.

"—my
seat, if that's all right. I'm having trouble seeing the witness from
here...."

***

"I
don't think you ought to come again," Cabot said to her after she'd played
with her dinner and refused dessert.

"I'm
sure you're right," she said. She'd never noticed that the tablecloth had
a floral pattern within the white-on-white damask. She traced one of the
flowers with her finger.

"How
did your argument go?" he asked after Rosa had cleared the dishes and
brought them each a cup of tea, hers in the cup that matched her mother's
pattern.

"Fine."
The word came out slowly, longer than it needed to be.

"Your
worthy opponent—his argument anything special?"

"Nothing
he hadn't said before."

"Mmm,"
he said, as if what she'd told him required deep thought.

She
traced another flower. Someday, she supposed, this tablecloth would be hers and
she could pass it on to—no, she could never pass it on. She sniffed. What a
stupid thing to make her cry. An old tablecloth that already had two wine
stains marring its beauty.

"Charlotte?
Are you all right?" He waved away Rosa and they sat in silence.
"Charlotte? Answer me, please."

She
nodded. If he didn't like nods he could sue her.

"Did
you see Mother after you got home from court?" he asked.

She
nodded again.

"Is
she ill?"

She
shook her head. Talking was too difficult. Breathing was too hard.

"Where
is she? Eli's?"

"Bed."

"Mother's
in bed?" he said as if he needed to guess from her response. "But she
isn't ill?"

Charlotte
shrugged. "Sad."

"This
is like talking to some prepubescent—" He stopped midsentence as if
something had suddenly occurred to him. "You're certain you are all
right?"

"Tired,"
she said softly. "Very tired."

"Charlotte,
if there's something you need to tell me, something I ought to know—I realize
that I can seem rigid sometimes, difficult, even. But this is your home and I
am your family. And furthermore—"

Furthermore.
She
could just imagine Cabot making love. There would be parties of the first part
and parties of the second part and whereas clauses and... Not that he would
ever make love to her. Not in any way.

"You're
crying," he said without any annoyance in his voice. He sounded surprised,
confused. "What is it?"

"I
like this tablecloth," she said, feeling the tears roll down her cheeks
and make patterns of their own on the white damask.

"The
tablecloth?" he said, wheeling over to where she sat and taking her hand
in his. "It'll be all right. You'll see. When you're older, things will
look different to you—better. You know what they say about time...."

He
waited for her to finish the line, but she was too busy gulping back tears to
answer, and so he did it himself.

"How
it heals all wounds? We'll be fine, you and me. I was thinking about that
little vacation I promised you. Does Europe sound better than Chicago?"

She
was racked with sobs now, and he let go of her hand so that she could tend to
herself, blow her nose, wipe her tears.

"Wouldn't
you like to see England? France? If you're up to it, of course."

He
put the back of his hand to her forehead, then to each of her cheeks.

"And
if you like it, we can plan on going back sometime. Maybe bring Davis. Can you
imagine him at the Tower of London?"

She
looked at the tablecloth again and laid her hand over one of the flowers,
petting it gently.

"Where's
your rabbit, anyway?" he asked. "Do you suppose that a dog would
bother him any? I've a client who raises Afghan hounds and I was thinking about
getting a pair for you. Would you like that?"

She
dissolved into a heap on the table, her head in her arms as she wailed and
gasped for breath.

"Charlotte,
this is wholly unlike you," he said, patting her gingerly on her back.

"Maybe
this is the real me, Cabot. Maybe I'm just a blubbering female. What if you
were stuck with that?"

"Do
you remember that I promised you I'd take care of you? Have I ever not kept my
word? Maybe we weren't meant to be happy, Charlotte. But we'll be all
right."

Had
Cabot really sat beside her bed while she'd cried herself to sleep? Or was it a
dream that he had tucked her tightly in and whispered that she not let the
bedbugs bite? Wouldn't it have been her mother in a dream? But then why look
for logic when what had sent her over the edge was an old tablecloth?

So
now it wasn't just lost cases that reduced her to tears. Fat lot of good
falling in love had done her. She'd been better off before.

She
dragged herself out of bed and down the hall to the washroom, passing Cabot's
open door on her way. His exasperated voice carried down the hall from
Kathryn's room.

"It's
one thing, Mother, to find a witness who saw Ashford somewhere else that first
night. It's quite another to find someone who saw the torch being thrown by
someone else the second time. I can't prove he wasn't where he was, can
I?"

She
couldn't hear Kathryn's response.

"No,
I don't," he said with a heavy sigh. "Not when he knew that Selma was
in there. There's only one person he's ever been willing to hurt, and that's
himself. I'm sure he was gone when the fire broke out or he'd have risked his
own neck to save hers. I've no doubt of it. The fact is, the way the timing
worked, he probably passed the murderer himself."

Kathryn
must have muttered something in response, or maybe she didn't. Charlotte didn't
care. Cabot was right. Ash probably saw the killer!

No
one had ever dressed as fast. She threw on a fresh shirtwaist and the skirt
she'd worn the day before and ran a brush through her uncontrollable mop. It
was never going to be long enough to pull back again, but suddenly that didn't
seem to matter. Ash loved it short and wild and if he wanted her to, she'd hack
it off whenever he asked.

She'd
promised him that she would not show her face again in the courtroom. But she
hadn't said she wouldn't visit him in jail, and grabbing up the notes she'd
been poring over, she hurried down the steps and out the door.

***

"What
are you doing here?" he asked, buttoning his shirt and tucking it into his
pants. "They said my lawyer was here to see me," he explained,
running his fingers through his hair to straighten it.

"Would
you leave us alone?" she asked the guard the way she'd seen Cabot do a
hundred times. "I need to speak with my client in private."

"Charlotte,
don't," he warned, but he didn't stop the guard from leaving and closing
the door behind him.

"You're
losing weight," she said, touching his cheek where the hollow had grown
deeper.

He
stood perfectly still and let her run her fingers over his face. His Adam's
apple bobbed furiously, but his hands stayed at his sides. "Cabot know
you're here?" he asked.

"It
was Cabot's idea," she started, then felt a pang of guilt. "That's
not exactly true. I've come because of an idea that Cabot had. He's home with
your
mother."

"She
must be pretty bad if Cabot's with her," he said.

Charlotte
nodded, unable to lie to him. Then, with her fingers crossed for luck, she told
him about Cabot's theory. "Can you remember seeing anyone after you left
the warehouse?"

"You
mean someone I know?" He pulled out a chair for her and one for himself,
coming to life for the first time since his arrest. "Wouldn't they have
been hiding?"

"Only
if they got there before you. But then they would have heard you talking to
Selma and have known she was inside. And who would want to hurt Selma?"

She
meant it rhetorically, but the question hung in the air.

"No,"
he said finally, with the hint of a laugh. "If you knew Selma well enough
to hate her, you'd have had to love her."

"So
then you and he probably crossed paths as you were walking down the street. He
broke a window, so you had to be far enough away not to have heard it. Of
course, he kept walking and so did you after you passed, which means you didn't
have to be blocks away at the time to be—"

"No
one," he said, and hit his fist into his palm. "No one I remember. No
one who stood out. Just your usual assortment of riffraff that the morning
brings out. Plus the iceman. The milkman. The mailman. The—"

The
mailman.
Charlotte
reached into her pocket and pulled out the small envelope that she had taken
from Selma's flowers. She slipped her finger under the seal and pulled out the
card.

"What
is that?" Ash asked, leaning closer to her to get a look.

Oh,
but he smelled of cheap lye soap and frustration, and Charlotte thought if they
could bottle it and sell it they'd be richer than Midas. She inhaled deeply
while he read the note aloud.

"I'm
so sorry this happened to you—Ewing.
Where did you get this, Charlie?"

"What?"
she asked, trying to pull herself away from the warmth his body gave off, the
hard arm against which her breast was pressed. She looked at the note in her
hand. "Think! Did you see Ewing Flannigan that morning, Ash? Was he the
mailman you passed?"

"Flannigan
sent this to Selma?"

She
nodded. "Mr. Flannigan was the beau that Eli was talking about that night
at dinner. Of course, he didn't know it was Davis's father she was seeing. But the
truth is he was the one sweet on her. What if she'd spurned him?"

"That
wasn't the way Eli was telling it," Ash said.

"What
if Eli had convinced her?" Charlotte asked. "And in his anger
Flannigan decided if he couldn't have her, no one could?"

Ash
shook his head. "Flannigan fights with his fists. He might have hit her if
he was mad enough, but setting the place on fire? It just isn't his
style."

"We
know he's violent. Maybe he does all kinds of terrible things when he's
drunk."

"And
why would he have set the first fire?" Ash asked. "Selma hadn't even
started seeing him then."

"Maybe
she'd turned him down," she insisted, unwilling to give up this first
shred of hope. "And maybe he's a pyromaniac."

"A
pyromaniac who sends flowers?" Ash asked skeptically. "And I'd
remember seeing him, don't you think? He isn't likely to be someone I wouldn't
have noticed."

"He
says he's sorry, doesn't he? Isn't that an admission of guilt?" She
studied the evidence in her hand.

"What
did you write on your card?" Ash asked her. "With your plant?"

"I
don't remember."

"Liar,"
he said, touching the tip of her nose. "I bet it was pretty close to what
Flannigan said."

"So
what if it was?" she said, lacing her fingers through his and brushing her
cheek with his knuckles. "It's reasonable doubt, I think."

"Because
a man sent a woman flowers?" He brought their joined hands to his lips and
kissed the back of hers. "I would send you flowers if things were
different."

"And
I would learn to bake so that I could make you cakes and pies," she said,
her thigh pressed against his.

"Would
you sneak a file in one of them?" he asked, his mouth against her ear.

"A
file? That, and my heart and soul," she said, turning her face so that his
lips were a hairbreadth from her own.

He
pulled back, and she could see in his face what it cost him to do it.
"Don't go giving those away to the likes of me," he said. "Not
if I'm convicted. You go on with your life if that happens, Charlie Russe.
Promise me you will."

"I
brought the list of customers with me," she said, fighting tears as she
dug into her satchel. "Maybe if you see a name, you'll remember passing
him that morning."

"Cabot
will take care of you, just like always," he said softly, looking at her
as if it was the last time he'd ever see her. As if he had already given up.
"He's promised me that."

"And
is that good enough for you?" she asked as the guard worked the key in the
lock of the door. "Should it be good enough for me?"

"It
may have to be," he said as he rose and shoved his hands into his pockets

***

"Kathryn,"
Charlotte said, standing by the woman's bed holding a dress in either hand,
"which one are you going to wear today?"

Kathryn
rolled over, turning her back to Charlotte, and burrowed deeper under the
covers.