Pride v. Prejudice (7 page)

“All we know is that he was in the barn,” I countered. “Was the medical examiner sure about the time of death?”

Evan found another piece of paper. “Within a four-hour period, yes. The Lunds both confirmed hearing the shotgun right about midnight. Based on coagulation, body temperature, seepage, and some scientific jargon, death occurred between midnight and four o'clock. The medical examiner will testify with a high degree of certainty. We can't call in another expert who might have a different opinion because it's not in our budget. I felt like a fool when I asked.” Grumbling unhappily, he closed the folder and templed his fingers. “Sarah's story is that she got home before eleven, brushed her teeth, and went to bed. She heard nothing out of the ordinary. The next morning she woke up at seven, had breakfast while she listened to the radio, and went out to the barn. When she saw the body, she knelt down and determined that he was dead. She went into the house, called the sheriff's department, and was sitting on the porch steps when the first deputies arrived twenty minutes later.”

“Could he have been shot elsewhere?”

“Not according to the crime scene investigators, who documented the blood splatters. Even if they're wrong, how do you explain the fact that the neighbors heard the shotgun blast?”

“They're lying,” I said.

“An interesting idea, granted, but it doesn't explain why Sarah didn't. The head of the CSI and the medical examiner would have to be in on it, too. I don't see how I can discredit both of them—and prove the Lunds lied.” I was trying to concoct an explanation when his phone rang. He shrugged an apology as he picked up the receiver. After several minutes of silence, he said, “It's okay. I can be there in half an hour. Don't cry, for pity's sake. Just stay calm and wait for me.”

“A client?” I asked as he hung up.

“My mother's dog attacked the postal carrier, who called his supervisor, who is on his way with the police and an ambulance. Whatever you do, don't mess with a federal employee.” He took folders and put them in a shiny briefcase. “I have to go, Claire. My mother's in hysterics. I'll give you my cell phone number. If you think of any way to save Sarah Swift, call me.” He handed me his card.

I picked up my purse. “Let me ask you something, Evan. Do you believe she's innocent?”

He hesitated. “It doesn't matter if I do or don't. All I can do is present the best defense I can.”

I followed him out to the parking lot and watched as he drove off in a subcompact that looked older than he was. As I paused to consider his response, the receptionist came out the front door and locked it. She avoided looking at me as she climbed onto a motorscooter, put on a helmet, and sputtered away to enjoy the long weekend.

I was not destined to enjoy any part of the weekend, I thought as I leaned against the hood of my car. I did have time to dash to the mall to buy towels and then sneak them upstairs before Peter came home. I also had time to swing by the Book Depot and utilize the computer to find a recipe for B
é
arnaise sauce, as well as B
é
chamel, Mornay, and Hollandaise, purchase the ingredients, and serve them over whatever I found in the refrigerator. Or I could try to help Sarah and make a fool out of Prosecutor Edwin Wessell (aka the Weasel).

Decisions, decisions.

 

4

I reached Sarah's turnoff without seeing a sign for Pinkie Sheer Road, so I continued onward, my head swiveling as if I were watching an indolent tennis match. Several unpaved roads disappeared into the woods. I was reluctant to explore any of them, since the last thing on my agenda was a flat tire in the middle of nowhere. I finally saw a yard sale in progress in front of a mobile home and pulled into the driveway. Two women in folding chairs, both with fiercely bleached hair and beer cans in hand, watched me intently as I got out of my car. I acknowledged them with a smile and then studied the array of miscellany on card tables. Having spotted nothing remotely charming, I picked up a chipped saucer with a faintly visible depiction of Old Faithful.

“How much?” I asked as I approached the women.

“Fifty cents,” said one of them.

I took out my wallet and found two quarters. “This must be a souvenir of your trip to Yellowstone.”

“She bought it at a flea market,” said the second woman. “Paid a nickel, if I recall.”

The first woman cackled. “Maybe, but it's worth fifty cents now.”

“It certainly is,” I said as I gave her the coins. “By the way, do you know where Pinkie Sheer Road is?”

“Why you lookin' for it?”

“I'm hoping to find Zachery Barnard. I was told he lives around here.”

The second woman finished her beer and crumpled the can with her hand. The snake tattooed on her bicep squirmed. “That old fart? Nobody with a lick of sense wants to find him, not even the census taker. He'd sooner spit in your face as give you the time of day. Did you notice the clothes on the rack over there? I reckon you and me are about the same size.”

We would be if I gained fifty pounds. “I'm in kind of a hurry. Can you give me directions to Mr. Barnard's house?”

She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “You sure you don't have time to look at the clothes? You might find some real sweet bargains.”

The first woman snorted. “She don't look like she wears used clothes, Taffy.”

“Oh, I do,” I said hastily. “My best friend owns a secondhand clothing store in Farberville. Why don't I take a quick look at what's on the rack?”

I ended up with a pair of plaid shorts, a blouse with discolored armpits, a plastic pitcher, a necklace made of seashells, and three well-thumbed issues of
People
magazine. After I'd handed over seven dollars and forty-five cents, the women told me that Pinkie Sheer Road was the next turn on the right. They were taking beers out of a cooler as I pulled onto the county road. The money had been well spent, I thought, since the dirt road lacked a sign. I'd been told Mr. Barnard lived in the first house past a pond. The pond was green and brought to mind images of algae-draped creatures arising from its depths. “House” was a polite term for the ramshackle structure with a swayback roof, broken windows, trash strewn in the weeds, an outbuilding of no discernible use, and a sign that warned me to beware of dogs.

I was losing enthusiasm for my mission as I cut off the engine and listened for barking. There was no indication that the house was currently inhabited, but the two women had assured me “that sumbitch Barnard” rarely ventured out since he was “drunk as a skunk afore noon.” An old pickup truck was parked beside the house. Two deflated tires and a bird's nest above the dashboard suggested Mr. Barnard hadn't gone anywhere for some time.

“Hello,” I called as I approached the front door. “Anybody home?”

A dog barked, albeit in the distance. Although I might lack the grace of a gazelle, I was prepared to match its speed if the barking grew louder. I knocked on the door and then stepped back in case I needed a head start. “Hello!” I called more loudly. “Mr. Barnard? I'd like to ask you a couple of questions. I'm here on behalf of Sarah Swift.”

The only response came from a malevolent blue jay on a fence post. Frowning, I turned around and trudged toward my car, wondering if I might have better luck if Sarah agreed to accompany me. I'd opened the car door when a voice behind me said, “What do ya want to know?”

The speaker was not the surly gnome I'd been led to expect. He was close to six feet tall and lean, with heavily tattooed forearms. Stringy gray hair brushed his shoulders. His stare from behind wire-rimmed glasses seemed sober. He might have purchased the baggy jeans and denim shirt from a thrift shop (or a convenient yard sale), but he wouldn't have been out of place in the pool hall on Thurber Street.

“I'm helping with Sarah's defense,” I said. “A year ago, after burglars broke into Miss Poppoy's home, you told an investigator that you'd seen a dark green van in the vicinity.”

“And?”

“Do you remember anything else about it? Did you happen to notice the license plate?”

“No.”

He was not the most cooperative witness I'd encountered, nor the most verbose. I did my best not to sound impatient. “The two men were never apprehended, so it's possible they were responsible for the shooting. If they saw Sarah drive away, they could have assumed the house was empty.”

“The guy was shot in the barn.”

“So they decided to steal a tractor. I really don't know. How many times did you notice the van, and where?”

He came toward me, his arms crossed. “I didn't get your name.”

“Claire Malloy. I live in Farberville and run a bookstore.”

“And you're a friend of Sarah's?”

“I'm the only friend she has right now,” I said, struggling to keep an edge out of my voice. “Her trial begins Tuesday, and her lawyer's going to have a tough time convincing the jury that she's innocent. It will help if he can throw out some alternative suspects—like the men in the van.” I wondered if I could bribe him with a plastic pitcher and old magazines, but I settled for a sigh. “I apologize for dragging you away from whatever you were doing. This has been a waste of time for both of us. Have a pleasant Labor Day weekend.”

I'd reached my car when he said, “Sorry I can't help. I just saw the van out of the corner of my eye when I drove by it. Once it was parked by the bridge, another time at the turnoff to a private road. Didn't see the driver, didn't glance at the license plate. You think Sarah will be convicted?”

I looked back. “Yes, I do.”

“Damn shame.” He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. “‘When lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, what charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away?'”

“It's going to take more than art,” I said drily as I got in my car. He stood in the weedy yard and watched me as I backed out to the road. I didn't wave. I could understand why the investigators had dismissed Barnard's vague statement. My best bet was Miss Poppoy, who could have recalled more details after her initial shock had faded. She would have to wait until the next day, since it was late in the afternoon and I needed to go home.

*   *   *

Caron and her best friend, Inez Thornton, were sitting by the pool, both texting. I sank down on a chaise longue and asked the trite parental question: “How was school?”

Caron didn't bother to look up. “Okay, I guess. The principal and the guidance counselor were caught having kinky sex in the library. The librarian would have intervened if she hadn't been taken hostage by the custodian, who was high on crack and toting an assault weapon. The SWAT team took him out by fifth period, which meant I still had to go to my AP calculus class. Luckily, I was able to grab a fire extinguisher and put out the raging inferno before anyone was charred. Oh, and I got a ninety-seven on a pop quiz in my world history class.”

“I aced it,” Inez said. “How was your day, Ms. Malloy?”

“Nothing but lions and tigers and bears.” I leaned back and closed my eyes. “Did Peter tell you that we're having a houseguest?”

“He's not home yet,” Caron said, “so he hasn't told me much of anything. Who's coming? I do hope it's the ambassador of someplace really cool like Monaco or Andorra.”

Inez giggled. “I vote for the incredibly handsome son of the French ambassador.
Je t'aime, Jean-Claude
.”

“In your dreams,” Caron said with a sniff.

“Je veux t'embrasser,”
Inez warbled,
“et ce n'est pas tout.”

“Not bad,” I said. “Haven't you been taking Latin all these years?”

“Latin is utilitarian, but hardly the language of romance. The library has a French language tutorial with a bunch of CDs. I kept checking it out all summer. I plan to do my junior year at the Sorbonne.” Inez had accomplished many other things over the summer. Her once limp brown hair was smartly styled and glistened with highlights. Her thick glasses had been replaced with contacts. New clothes, including the tiny bikini she was wearing, had revealed a rather curvy figure. Caron had always been first violin; now she was struggling not to play second fiddle.

“Bonne chance,”
I said, amused at Caron's pinched expression.

Inez stopped texting long enough to push back her hair. “To sleep, perchance to dream of Jean-Claude,
mon amour
.” She looked at me. “Unless you're expecting someone else, of course.”

“I'm afraid so. Peter's mother is arriving Monday.”

Caron's thumbs froze in midtweet. “Peter's mother?”

Inez looked curiously at her. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” I said, “it's more of a sudden thing. We've never met her. She was on a lengthy tour of China when we got married last spring. She sent an antique porcelain figurine as a wedding present.” I clutched my hand to my mouth. “I haven't seen it since it arrived. We repacked it in the same box so it wouldn't get broken during the move. But we unpacked all the boxes, didn't we? I remember labeling it and putting it in the pile behind the dining table.” I tried desperately to visualize the stacked boxes, one adorned with a scrawled
Ming Thing.
“Are there any unopened boxes in the storage room off the garage?”

Caron shook her head. “I went out there last week to look for my old yearbooks. There were a couple of boxes of your books, a scruffy suitcase, a stepladder, and a trunk filled with notebooks and letters.”

Notebooks and letters that I'd forgotten to burn. I watched her face for a sign that she'd snooped through the contents of the trunk. Her lower lip had not shot out, nor were her eyebrows lowered. “You're sure the porcelain figurine wasn't there?”