Pride v. Prejudice (11 page)

“You interested in buying some beachfront property out by Maggody? My uncle owns a hundred acres. Once this so-called global warming kicks in, the ocean's gonna rise.”

I pondered several responses, but none of them would win his heart. “I'll keep your offer in mind, Deputy Norton. Could I have a look at the file on the home invasion?”

“Not relevant. The majority of murders are committed by folks known to the victim. We took a hard look at the most obvious suspect, and when her story turned out to be a crock of lies, we arrested her. The grand jury indicted her, and now she's going to trial. None of this has anything to do with the dumbasses what broke into that old woman's house and stole her property.” He closed the folder. “You need to run along, Mizz Malloy. I need to make some calls about a stolen dog.”

I switched on the maternal glare. “I rarely run along. Who questioned the neighbors?”

His lower lip quavered but did not protrude. “I'll give you five more minutes, okay?” He reopened the folder, shuffled through pages, and finally put his finger on what I presumed contained the pertinent information. “Deputy Harraldson took statements from Juniper and William Lund. The lawyer has copies, so I don't see any reason to read them to you.”

“What about their grandson, a little boy named Billy?”

“There's nothing in here about him.”

“He was questioned by a deputy,” I persisted. “Would that have been Deputy Harraldson?”

“Like I said, there's nothing in here.” He again closed the folder, this time with unnecessary force. “Why don't you come back Tuesday and talk to the sheriff? It's my day off.”

“I'd prefer to speak to Deputy Harraldson. Is he on duty today?”

“Not hardly,” Frankie said smugly.

I was perilously close to losing my equanimity. “Is it possible that he's at home?”

He hesitated, his lips parted as he thought this over. “I can give you his home address, but I can't promise he'll be any help.” He scribbled on a notepad, then tore off the sheet and pushed it across the desk. “I'll tell Sheriff Dorfer you were here, Mizz Malloy. Have a nice day.”

I did not stalk out of his office, but my posture was perfect, and I did not glance at LaBelle as I sailed out the main door. Once I was in my car, I looked at the paper. Frankie's penmanship was abysmal but decipherable. Deputy Harraldson purportedly lived on Jicama Drive in Mansfield, a small town in a corner of the county. I would require a map, not an insurmountable problem. The real problem was finding evidence that might lead to a not-guilty verdict, and doing so in a few short days. Since I had no idea how long the trial might last, I decided to swing by Evan Toffle's office and resume our conversation.

I had no problem parking in front of his office, since the only vehicle there was his sad little car. The reception room was dark. I rapped my car key on the glass door. After a minute, Evan came to the doorway, looked at me without enthusiasm, and came across the room to admit me.

“Any luck?” he asked as we walked to his office.

“Maybe.” I moved a stack of law books off a chair and sat down. “Do you know about the mysterious green van?”

His expression brightened, although the wattage remained low. “It's not mentioned in the file or the discovery material. What's the deal?”

I told him about Miss Poppoy's burglary and Zachery Barnard's sightings. “The sheriff's department failed to see any connection to Tuck's case, so they didn't make an effort to locate it. I'm unfamiliar with the manual on how to stage home invasions, but I'd suppose one of the hints is to watch the house prior to the main event. Miss Poppoy said she'd seen the van parked near Sarah's mailbox.”

Evan thought for a moment. “All right, let's hypothesize that the burglars were preparing to break into the house. Criminals are not especially intelligent, but I think they would prefer the house to be empty. Sarah claims that Tuck had already gone on his nonexistent fishing trip when she left to go to her book club meeting.”

I held up my hand. “When did she say he left?”

“She was at the caf
é
until six. He was gone when she got home. She changed clothes, ate a sandwich, and left shortly after seven. Our burglars would have seen her drive off. Sometime between then and midnight, Tuck returned from wherever he'd been. By eight thirty, it would have been getting dark. He either went inside and turned on lights, or decided to spend the night in the barn, which has no lights. Help me here, Claire.”

“Was the house dark when Sarah came home?”

He opened a folder and took out several pages. After a quick scan, he said, “She turned on a lamp in the living room before she left, so she noticed the house was dark when she got back. If that was true, Tuck was either sitting in the dark inside the house or was already in the barn.”

“William Lund told me he saw lights in the house earlier that evening.”

“So someone turned them off.”

I related my hostage scenario. “When he heard the burglars open the barn door, he took the shotgun out of the closet, turned off the light, and crept across the yard. It could have happened any time after eight. For all we know, they sat around and negotiated until Sarah drove the pickup truck up the driveway.”

“So all we have to do is find these two gentlemen and convince them to confess. Wessell won't need more than two days to present his case, so I'll need to have them available to testify by Thursday. Would you prefer to call them, or shall I? Gee, I hope they haven't already made plans for the day.”

“I have dealt with sarcasm and mockery for three days in a row. My cup has runneth over, and I'm standing in a damn puddle of derision. It's not as though I don't have plenty of other problems. Your mother's dog may have gone after a postal carrier, but my mother-in-law is coming to visit and I lost her damn wedding present and she will notice. Are you going to find it all that amusing when Sarah is sentenced to life in prison? Saving any tidbits of sarcasm to toss at her when she's dragged away in handcuffs?” I realized I had risen and was poking my finger at him as if he were a hapless rotary dial. I closed my mouth and sat down. “Sorry,” I said, although I wasn't.

“Me, too. This is my first murder trial, and I'm feeling the pressure. I should have specialized in wills and trusts. I'd be working sixty-hour weeks in the basement of some big firm, but I wouldn't be responsible for destroying someone's future.”

“You're not responsible, Evan. Sarah should have divorced her husband years ago and gone on her merry way.”

“No kidding. I asked her why she hung around, and all she said was that she'd been stuck with him for better or worse. I can't think of anything worse than spending your life with someone you loathe. Back when I was assigned to the case, I had a girlfriend. She was dropping hints about getting married, and I was mulling it over. By the time Sarah was indicted by the grand jury, I'd soured on the idea of any kind of permanent relationship. Last month I received a wedding invitation from Debbie. She's marrying one of the senior partners at her law firm.”

I wasn't sure whether I should applaud or console him. “There are plenty of happy marriages out there.”

“Do they all come with mothers-in-law?”

I took a deep breath. “Let's review what I've found out thus far and come up with a plan to save Sarah, shall we?”

 

6

Our planning session was brief, since neither of us had much to contribute. We did agree that we needed Sarah's input. Evan phoned her, but she didn't answer. Deputy Harraldson's telephone number was unlisted. The only other person I could think of to call was Caron, but I wasn't in the mood to be berated for interrupting her mission to find and retrieve the holiest of the grails.

I left Evan hunkered behind a stack of law books and drove to Mansfield, courtesy of a map drawn on Legal Aid stationery. Although the town boasted a traffic light, it lacked street signs. After a few aimless forays, I was heading back to the business district (a convenience store) for directions when I saw, with mixed emotions, a yard sale. The house was beyond unpretentious, but most likely safe from condemnation. I parked at the edge of the unpaved street and walked up the gravel driveway. A woman dressed in a muumuu and flip-flops, with massively bushy hair and a faint mustache, lowered her face to peer at me over her sunglasses.

D
é
j
à
vu and pay-per-view.

“Hi,” I said, trying to appear excited as I gazed at the card tables covered with dishes, jars, plastic kitchen utensils, and costume jewelry. “I'm looking for Jicama Drive. Can you help me?”

“You know somebody that lives there?”

“I don't know Deputy Harraldson, but his partner gave me the address. It's about an old investigation.”

“That Frankie Norton is one sick puppy,” she said. “He used to date my sister's daughter, a sweet girl and popular at school. She was on the honor roll, too, until she took up with him. He kept her out half the night, sometimes brought her home drunk or high. Her grades went all to hell, and instead of going to college on a scholarship, she works at a church daycare center and takes night classes.”

“How sad,” I murmured.

“Don't go feeling sorry for her. Everybody in the family, including yours truly, tried to talk some sense into her, but she'd just sit there like a bumpkin on a log. You could see your words go in one ear and float out the other. Kids these days think they can have whatever they want just for the asking.”

“Kids,” I said, shaking my head. “Now, if you could please tell me how to find Jicama Drive, I'd appreciate it.”

“My brother's stepson is a real mess. He's not but fourteen, and he's already been arrested twice for DWI. It's his mama's fault. She feels guilty about the divorce and tries to make it up to him by letting him do as he pleases.” The woman pulled off her sunglasses to wipe her eyes. “The boy needs discipline, and I mean with a belt. Poor Houston is afraid to raise his voice, much less his hand.”

I'd underestimated the social dynamics of yard sales. Vowing to avoid them in the future, even if it involved risking a limb, I said, “Jicama Drive?”

“Why don't you sit for a spell? We all have problems, and talking about them can help sometimes. When my youngest was born, I got so depressed I stayed in my bed for seventeen weeks. It was all I could do to nurse the baby. You ever been depressed like that? So tired all you want to do is cry yourself to sleep?”

I was heading that way. I gave her my most sympathetic smile and said, “I wish I could stay, but I'm in a dreadful hurry. As soon as I've spoken to Deputy Harraldson, I need to rush home to take care of my daughter. She has scurvy.”

“Scurvy?”

“That's what she told me.”

“I didn't think folks got that these days.” She sucked on her upper lip, trying to decide if I met her criteria for a sick puppy. A quick glance at the street indicated I was the best she had for the time being. “Then again, who knows what these kids are capable of catching. In my day, all we worried about was diarrhea and gonorrhea.” She waited for me to laugh, and after I forced out a chuckle of sorts, gave up on me. “Go back to the highway, turn right, and take the next left. It's just past where the mobile home park used to be before the tornado got it. It was a doozey. Some of its residents are in Oz these days, others at the cemetery. My husband and I got our plots booked in advance. We're going to spend eternity under a persimmon tree, if you can imagine.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“You wouldn't say that if you knew my husband.”

I snatched up a lopsided picture frame lacking glass. “How much?”

“You can have it,” the woman said. “Ain't worth a plug nickel. Neither is my husband. Sumbitch is carrying on with Leon's wife. Everybody in town knows about it, except Leon. He fell off the roof of his house when he was putting up Christmas lights four years ago, and he's been humming ‘Jingle Bells' ever since.”

I retreated to my car, picture frame in hand, and drove back to the highway. I turned right, and then turned left at a vacant lot strewn with branches and skeletal metal. There was a car in the carport of Deputy Harraldson's house. Trying hard not to look like a missionary, I went to the front door.

The middle-aged woman who answered the door could barely find the energy to raise her eyebrows. “Yes?” she said.

“Is Deputy Harraldson at home? I'd like to speak to him about an old investigation. I was at the sheriff's department earlier this afternoon and was given this address.”

“Frankie Norton is way too big for his britches. Yes, my husband is home. No, you can't speak to him. Have a nice day.”

I inserted my foot before the door closed. “It will just take a couple of minutes. It concerns the Sarah Swift case. Her trial begins Tuesday.”

“Yeah, I remember her. She shot her husband in the barn, right? There's nothing my husband can tell you that's going to help her or you.” She again attempted to close the door.

“Please let me speak to him,” I said, although it sounded more like a pathetic bleat than a request. “Sarah may be innocent. If she's found guilty, she'll die in prison.”

The woman shrugged. “All right, but it's not going to do any good. Richard was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's at the first of the year, and he's been going downhill like a kid on a sled. Most days he knows who I am, but he drifts in and out. I was hoping you were from Social Services. They said they were sending someone to keep an eye on him so I can have a few hours off. I haven't been to the beauty shop for months.”

I wanted to hug her, assure her that her hair looked fine, and offer to spend the afternoon with her husband. I restrained myself and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Harraldson.”