Ten Little Bloodhounds (34 page)

Judge Dalby entered the courtroom from her chambers and the crowd went silent. No one wanted to get thrown out before the verdict was read.

We all sat expectantly as the jury filed in and took their seats. None of them looked my way.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Dalby’s voice sounded neutral. Maybe she liked me, even if I had been blackmailing her into doing me favors. Maybe not.

A downtown druggist, where I didn’t trade, handed a folded paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the judge, waited until she had read it, and carried it back to the foreman, or madam foreperson, or whoever.

“Will the defendant please rise?”

Wade put his hand under my elbow, and I managed to stand erect without disgracing myself.

“Will you please read the verdict?”

The fat lady druggist had a nice baritone voice.

“On the charge of murder in the second degree, we find the defendant guilty.”

I
was sitting at my kitchen table attempting to eat a banana and peanut butter sandwich. It was noon and I hadn’t eaten since last night. When I prepared it, it had looked appetizing, and the first bite was delicious. Then Wade had called and informed me that he and Hank were coming out with news. The second bite was difficult to swallow, and I threw the remainder in the kitchen trash and sat there sipping iced tea.

I was still free on bond, pending the appeal of my conviction. Wade had explained the procedure.

“Judge Dalby knew you were innocent, but the only way she could help was to make sure there were sufficient grounds for appeal. She let not one, but three beauties slip by her. I could drive a semi through these openings! She was a fine trial attorney, and is an excellent judge. The errors in the trial were deliberate. She risked getting her name bandied about doing it. You owe her.”

“Give her this message from me the next time you see her, and quote it exactly as I state it.

“‘I know our paths will never cross again, so I want to take this last opportunity to thank you.’ Can you remember it?”

“Of course.” He sat for a few seconds staring at his desk before raising his eyes to mine. A small frown appeared on his brow.

“Is there something you’re not sharing with me?”

“Not a thing,” I lied, and spent several minutes making him believe it. I had informed Constance that I would never bug her again or threaten to reveal her indiscretion. She was free of my blackmailing her for favors, forever.

I gazed out the window and remembered Rand as he had looked that first day when he flew me to the island. He had been carefree, good-looking, sexy, and seemed worthy of future consideration. It’s sobering to realize with hindsight how easily one could be deceived by appearances.

As much as I loathed Rand for hanging a murder charge around my neck, and conning his mother into confessing to a murder she didn’t commit, I regretted the fact that his life had ended. He was buried last week on Little Cat Island, and the sheriff had allowed Celia to attend the funeral.

Two fishermen just offshore in a skiff had seen his helicopter drop out of the sky belching smoke, and barely make land before crashing and burning. A quarter-acre of wild brush was turned into a smoldering circle of soot and ashes before the two could approach the small pile of burnt metal. He was an evil man and deserved punishment for his actions, but fate had produced an ending too horrific to contemplate. The FAA was investigating.
Hank had seen photos of the crash site, and told me that I shouldn’t view them. I took his word.

I heard car doors slam and rose to go greet my support team that was trying to get my life back on track. I hadn’t wasted any time in removing my two gate alarms after I had eliminated the reason I needed them. The speaker at the front gate had been sent back for a refund and I had Wayne and Donnie Ray take both gates off their hinges and store them in the barn. It still felt strange that people could now drive into the courtyard unaccompanied by loud noises.

They greeted me politely, and followed me back into the kitchen with unreadable expressions. I served coffee with a dry mouth and an accelerated pulse. I sat and folded my arms on the table.

“I’m ready. Tell me.”

“We came bearing gifts!” Hank was grinning from ear to ear. I switched my gaze to Wade.

“Judge Dalby is writing a decision on your trial to set aside the jury’s guilty verdict, based on new evidence. It will take a few weeks, but it’s all over but the shouting.”

“You won’t be retried, Jo Beth,” Hank butted in. “In fact, I had to listen to the pompous district attorney, our own Bobby Don Robbins, explaining that he knew you should have never been tried in the first place, and how happy he was that justice prevailed.”

“I will want all the details later, but right now, this minute, are you both one hundred percent sure that I will remain free, not have to serve time, and won’t be tried again? Please think before you answer, my sanity depends on honest appraisals.”

“You are free of all charges, you have my word,” Wade declared.

Hank pumped his arm and raised it dramatically. “Ditto, Jo Beth, it’s over. The nightmare is over!”

I pushed back my chair and fled to the bedroom. It is easier to get a heart and pulse racing than it is to calm them down and feel normal. I cried for two reasons. Relief that I had gotten away with removing Bubba from my life, and regret for being pushed into taking his life to protect mine.

I knew I wouldn’t be riding off in the sunset feeling cleansed and rid of all guilt. I would be paying for my action for the rest of my life. The nightmare came each night. I was on my back and a bloody Bubba was towering over me, falling in slow motion to smother me with his blood. I would wake and be unable to sleep again. I’d read, catch up on my paperwork, or simply sit and wait for the dawn.

When I returned to the kitchen Hank and Wade were on their second cup of coffee and Jasmine had joined them.

“Tell us about the new evidence.”

Hank began. “When Celia confessed, it seems that Rand went to a lawyer and had him draw up a will. He anticipated getting his share of the estate. Now, I don’t believe that he had a conscience. My guess is that he wanted to brag about his ability in manipulating Celia and sandbagging you, and the only way to do that was to leave a signed confession to be opened after his death.

“He wasn’t thinking of dying so soon, he thought that it would happen years and years from now, and possibly he saw it as a future payback for his illegitimate
mate birth. I’ll even give the sucker a little credit. He might have realized that he might die in an accident or illness while his mother was still languishing in jail. Whatever his reason for leaving a detailed statement in his handwriting exonerating Celia, he had to include you, Jo Beth, detailing where and when he lied on the stand about the night he witnessed the shooting. Upon his death the lawyer opened this document, and notified Judge Dalby. She notified the district attorney, Wade, and me. It is enough, Wade tells me, for her to reverse the jury’s decision and render a verdict of acquittal.”

“Could the appeals court or any higher court find that she erred, and possibly reverse it again?” Jasmine was exploring all possibilities of what could go wrong. We both are prone to looking a gift horse in the mouth, not only to discover his age but also to check for a tattoo to make sure that he wasn’t stolen. We both turned to Wade.

“Absolutely not. In fact, she should have done so the minute I asked for a directed verdict of acquittal, immediately after the state presented its case. I still don’t understand her reasoning for letting the trial go forward. Maybe she thought when the circumstances were placed into evidence that Jo Beth’s peers would fully exonerate her. She had to realize that she shouldn’t have been tried for murder two, it was clearly justifiable homicide.”

And just maybe, I reasoned, she wanted to extract a pound of flesh and make me suffer for the humiliation that her pride had suffered when I asked and she had to grant me favors. We are now even, Constance. We should both go forth and sin no more.

The questions asked and answered then turned into laughter and suggestions of different ways to celebrate.

I stood. “Sorry, guys, I’m going to be really busy the next few days, maybe we can celebrate next week.”

“Doing what?” Hank asked.

“Winning back Bobby Lee and proving to him that he’s the love of my life, and bringing him home forever.” And that is when I ran for the door.

“Bobby Lee!” I yelled, “Come here, you big lug! It’s time to come home!”

Two months later, on a warm May day, I was sitting in John Jason Jackson’s office waiting impatiently for him to finish his long-winded speech about the trials and tribulations of closing the probate file for Alyce Cancannon’s estate.

Finally, with a flourish, he had presented me with the promised check. I barely glanced at the figure; just enough to make sure that it had enough zeros as I tucked it into my purse.

When he realized I wasn’t going to thank him, he sighed and waved a hand toward the right side of the room.

“If the check didn’t excite you, I’m sure the four canvases your father painted will. I guess you didn’t notice them when you arrived. They are displayed on the south wall. I can’t wait to see the expression on your face when you pick the one that you’ll take home with you.”

I had spotted the pictures in my peripheral vision when I had entered his office, but hadn’t taken my eyes from his face to study them.

“I noticed,” I said softly. “I would rather be alone when I examine them.”

He opened his mouth to say something but had second thoughts. His ears were turning pink. He pushed
back his chair and departed in haste, closing the door with more force than was necessary.

I stood and walked slowly to the wall and took my time on the first three. They were beautiful. Three different views of Cumberland’s coastline, gentle surf rolling in on the beach, sea oats waving in a soft breeze, and pine and oak trees looking majestic in the background.

When I moved to the fourth, I gasped with pleasure. Suddenly I was eight years old again, standing under a hot summer sun, sandy and perspiring, watching my father while he painted this picture.

The small stone cairn that I had leaned on was in the foreground. The view was of surf at low tide. A black-as-midnight, strong-limbed stallion ran in the shallow water leading his twelve mares. They were a herd of the famous wild horses of Cumberland Island. I could hear their hooves slapping the water’s edge and see the droplets sprayed into the air reflecting the sunlight. They were carelessly tossed jewels, a possible tribute from a benign deity.

Muscles rippled under warm hides and haunches bunched and relaxed in unison as they ran free and unfettered by man-made restraints.

I felt dizzy and placed a hand on the wall to brace myself. I shook my head to clear my vision and drew in tiny breaths so I wouldn’t hyperventilate. The painting was a glorious remembrance of a magical day I had spent with my father.

With great joy and a cheerful heart I went to tell Jackson my decision. The painting would protect me on the black nights when Bubba came to call, bearing his twin gifts of blood and guilt. I realized I was tentatively beginning to feel contentment.

I wish to thank the following people for invaluable advice, research, and encouragement:

Bruce Ludemann, Niagara County Sheriff Special Forces Unit, Lockport, New York. Officer Kathy “Kat” Albrecht, University of California at Santa Cruz Police Department Search-and-Rescue, who owns Pet Pursuit, a business that finds lost pets with a bloodhound trained to find animals, not humans.

If I thanked William (Bill) D. Tolhurst of Lockport, New York in every future book, I still couldn’t convey how deeply I am in his debt for canine training tapes, scent machine advice, police procedure tapes, and all the additional lore I have learned from him. Thanks again, Bill.

I met two bloodhounds, Bogart and Columboux, at
the eleventh annual Table of Content dinner on St. Simons Island, Georgia. I want to thank their owner, Brenda Brazil, for allowing them to share the spotlight with me, even though in this outing, I placed third.

I want to thank Susan Roberts, Director of Waycross-Ware County Public Library and Headquarters of the Okefenokee Library System, for all her kindness and efforts on my behalf. Waycross, Georgia, is truly blessed with excellent librarians, and Susan’s star is the brightest.