The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (136 page)

It was a moment before Finch realized she meant the baby, not her.

Maude gave another snort, thumping at the dough with her rolling pin. She could deny it all she liked, but there was nothing she’d love more than a baby to fuss over night and day.

Finch felt suddenly out in the cold. She recalled her years in foster care, where the best stuff and biggest helpings always went to the littlest and cutest kids. How could she compete with a baby? And from the way Laura was mooning, it would only get worse once Esperanza was there.

“Well, at least she’ll have plenty to wear.” Maude was sewing a whole wardrobe of little dresses, an opportunity she’d been deprived of when Sam’s baby turned out to be a boy.

“Just no ruffles, please.” Laura was filling a pitcher at the sink.

“Knowing you, she’ll be on horseback before she’s even learned to walk. Another tomboy—just what we need,” Maude grumbled good-naturedly.

“By the way,” Laura said, “Alice wants to throw me a shower. I told her—”

“Is that all anyone thinks about around here!” Finch slammed a plate down on the table. “What about Anna? She could go to prison, and all you care about is that stupid baby!”

Laura looked stunned. “I haven’t forgotten Anna,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I told Alice that if she wants to throw a party, we should make it a fund-raiser.” She set the pitcher down. “Finch, what’s going on? Are you upset because—”

Finch didn’t hear the rest; she was already bolting out the door. Outside, the air was cool against her burning cheeks amid the gathering dusk as she pelted across the yard.

In the barn she was greeted by the horses nickering in their stalls. She heard a rustling noise and her mare’s sleek chestnut head appeared over the door to her stall. Finch pressed a cheek to her silky neck, breathing in her horsey scent. Weren’t they both rejects in a way? Like Punch and Judy before her, Cheyenne had come to them through Lost Paws, where Laura was on the board—a track horse that had outlived her usefulness.

She heard the barn door slide open and turned to find Laura eyeing her with concern. “Finch, what is it?”

“Nothing.”

“I was afraid of this.” Laura sighed, sinking down on the bench. “It didn’t turn out the way you’d hoped, did it?”

Finch walked over and sank down beside her, oblivious to the delicious smells wafting across the yard. “She’s just a nice old lady. I feel stupid for ever thinking …” She struggled to keep from crying. “I guess that kind of stuff only happens in movies.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the horses nickering for the sugar cubes Laura usually had tucked in her pocket. At last she said, “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could say that would make it better.”

“It’s okay.” Nothing was going to make her feel better right now.

“You don’t need to hear you have a family with us; you already know that.”

Finch nodded dispiritedly. “I feel like such an idiot.”

Laura put an arm around her shoulders. “When I was your age, I dreamed of a big family, at least six kids. It wasn’t meant to be, but you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way. You and Hector and Maude, you’re everything to me.”

“With the baby, that’s five. You’ll need one more to make it six.” A corner of Finch’s mouth hooked up.

Laura laughed. “We’ll see how it goes with this one first, though with all the trouble we’ve gone to putting together that crib it’d be a shame not to put it to more use.”

Finch told her then about Hank Montgomery and Grace Elliston. Laura didn’t seem surprised; she only nodded and said, “Nana said he was the most magnetic man she’d ever met. I got the feeling he was a real heartbreaker.”

“I wonder if Martha knows he’s her father.”

“She’s certainly never said anything. If she had, it’d be the talk of the town.” Hank Montgomery might have slipped into obscurity elsewhere, but in Carson Springs he was legendary. “Come to think of it, though, I
do
remember some old gossip about Grace. In those days a baby out of wedlock would have caused quite a scandal. Poor woman.” She shook her head.

Finch studied her face, dear and familiar. Who was to say Martha wouldn’t have been better off had her mother given her up for adoption?

“Do you think I should say something to her?” she asked.

“I’m not sure it’s your place.”

“I’d want to know if I were her.”

Laura frowned in thought. “Maybe if we went to Grace instead—”

“We?”

“You think I’d let you go alone?”

Finch felt something loosen in her chest. “We could invite her over after mass this Sunday. You know, for lunch or something.”

“We’d have to invite Martha, too. No, I think our best bet is to drop by during the week when Martha’s at work. Of course, I’d have to write you a note for school.” Her eyes sparkled the way Andie’s did when the two of them were plotting some intrigue.

“As long as she doesn’t ask what’s wrong with me. I’d hate to have to lie to her face when she’s the reason I’m absent.”

“Good point. I’ll say it’s a checkup.”

They lapsed into companionable silence. Finch had forgotten all about dinner until Laura said, “What do you say we head back inside?”

Finch realized she was starving. “I’m so hungry I could eat a—” She looked up to find her mare eyeing her reproachfully, or so it seemed. “Never mind.”

Minutes later she was sitting down to a steaming plate of chicken pot pie and biscuits, green beans, and Maude’s famous pickled beets. They bowed their heads while Laura said grace. When they got to
Amen
, Finch said it louder than the others.

Laura smiled at her across the table and for a frightening moment Finch thought she might make a corny speech—about how blessed they were to have each other and how they all had to stick together—but all she said was, “Butter, anyone?”

T
HE DAY OF THE
preliminary hearing the courthouse was packed, the steps outside a sea of reporters and bobbing Minicams. Local TV jockeyed with print and radio while the network heavies seized control of prime space. There were stringers from
Le Monde
and the Brits’ favorite sleazemonger, the
Mirror.
And a reporter from the
Globe,
a particularly disreputable character by the name of Lenny Buckholtz, with “more balls than a bowling alley,” as Maude sniffed, had been placed under arrest for attempting to bribe a clerk in the coroner’s office into slipping him postmortem photos.

Each new development in the ongoing soap opera of
State of California
v.
Anna Vincenzi
was like a scrap of wood tossed onto an already roaring blaze. An editorial in the
New York Post
postulated that Anna had killed Monica for the money. The
National Star
ran an exclusive interview with a former housekeeper who described her years of mistreatment at Monica’s hands, suggesting that Anna’s motivation had been one of revenge. In the midst of it all, Anna, the
real
Anna, had become lost somehow, replaced by a figment of the public’s imagination. The truth was irrelevant. People wouldn’t welcome it any more than they would the truth about themselves.

Now, as she scanned the packed gallery, she knew what it was to be a Christian in the lion’s den. Her underarms were soggy despite the antiperspirant she’d lathered on, and if her stomach didn’t settle down, the coffee she’d gulped on the run would soon have her regretting that she’d worn pantyhose.

She glanced at Rhonda beside her, scribbling something on her legal pad. She looked poised and confident. Too confident? Would she rub the judge the wrong way as she had the last time? Well, at least no one could say she wasn’t prepared. After weeks of plotting and planning, her lawyer was in full battle mode.

But what if that wasn’t enough?

Krystal, their ace in the hole, had vanished along with any chance of the real killer’s being found. The investigator Rhonda had hired, a retired LAPD detective named Barney Merlin, had reported, not surprisingly, that Krystal’s children weren’t in school and that her boss at Merry Maids hadn’t heard from her; she hadn’t even bothered to pick up her check. Wherever she’d gone, it was obvious she didn’t want to be found.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Emory Cartwright. Court is now in session.”

Anna was jerked to her feet as if by an invisible leash. These days her body was like an obedient dog, operating according to whatever command it was given: Sit, stay, lie down, play dead.

Rhonda remained on her feet after everyone else had retaken their seats.

“Your presence is duly noted, Ms. Talltree,” the judge said dryly. “I just hope, in your enthusiasm for this morning’s proceedings, you’re mindful of my ulcer.”

“I’ll do my best, Your Honor.” A wave of chuckles rippled through the courtroom as Rhonda, erect as a military attaché in her navy suit and crisp white blouse, lowered herself into her chair.

The judge, looking more dyspeptic than ever, stilled the rustling in the gallery with a sharp rap of his gavel. “In the matter of
State of California
v.
Anna Vincenzi
…” He rattled off the charges for the benefit of the court reporter, a tall, rail-thin man hunched like a question mark over his machine, before nodding to the district attorney, who was flanked by a pair of his deputies, a young man and woman who looked fresh out of law school. “Mr. Showalter, you may proceed.”

The D.A. rose to his feet, smoothing his tie. In his double-breasted, pin-striped suit, he looked like a pork barrel politician stumping the campaign trail. “Your Honor,” he began, “the people will show that the defendant, on the night of April 17, 2001, did intentionally cause the death of Monica Vincent. Ms. Anna Vincenzi,” he swung around to level an accusing finger at Anna, “was not only her sister but her trusted assistant. And on the night in question, the defendant drove to the victim’s home, also her place of employment, with one thing in mind: murder.” He paused for dramatic effect, fingers steepled under his chin.

“We may never know Ms. Vincenzi’s motive,” he went on. “Was she jealous of her older sister’s fame and fortune, or was it simply greed? In any case, we intend to show that somewhere between eleven and midnight, following what appears to have been a struggle, she pushed the victim into the pool. This wasn’t a prank gone awry, Your Honor. Monica was in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down and helpless to defend herself. Though it appears she put up a good fight, as evidenced by the bruises she sustained as well as the scratches on the defendant’s arm at the time of her arrest, she was unable to swim to safety. Nor was there anyone to hear her cries—except the defendant, who coldly stood by and watched her drown.” Another pregnant pause. “Your Honor, if there was ever a case of first-degree murder, this is it.”

Anna felt the blood drain from her face. Who was this woman he was describing, this cold-blooded killer? How could anyone possibly think that of
her
?

When it was her turn, Rhonda rose to her feet. “Your Honor, there’s nothing to suggest that Ms. Vincenzi was anywhere near her sister’s house that night; there are no eyewitnesses and only the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence. It’s easy to point the finger at a woman whose only crime was that she had easy access to her sister. Let’s face it; she’s a sitting duck—or should I say a bird in hand.” She cast a pointed look at Showalter. “Monica Vincent is dead, yes. But my client didn’t kill her. Don’t make her a victim of this terrible tragedy, too.”

Judge Cartwright’s face registered nothing other than general distaste for the proceedings. But however much he might have liked this to be someone else’s ulcer, circumstances had dictated otherwise. “Ms. Talltree, Mr. Showalter, let me remind you that this is a preliminary hearing, not a trial, so please spare me the theatrics,” he cautioned before instructing them on which evidence and testimony he would allow.

There
would
be a trial; Anna was almost sure of it now. And what then? Her mind swam with visions of lock-downs, tattooed inmates, high walls topped with razor wire. In panic she glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of Marc, seated next to Laura in the first row. He didn’t smile or mouth words of encouragement; he just held her gaze, his blue eyes focused on hers with the steadiness of a lighthouse beacon.
I’m here,
they seemed to say.
And I’ll be here tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.

She felt some of the tension drain out of her. Whatever happened, she’d been blessed. Instead of a life half lived, she’d known what it was to fall asleep in the arms of a man who adored her, who shielded her the way a windbreak prevents topsoil from being scattered every which way.

Detective Burch, looking like a bull with blood in its eye, was the first witness for the prosecution. He presented postmortem photos, a log of latent prints, and impressions lifted from the house and immediate vicinity, as well as e-mails recovered from both Monica’s and Anna’s computers. But most damning of all were the DNA test results.

The state’s expert, a gaunt, white-haired man with a goatee, Colonel Sanders on a starvation diet, was called up next to interpret those results. From the sprightliness with which he strode toward the stand and the collegial nod with which he greeted Showalter and his deputies, he was clearly no stranger to the courtroom.

“Doctor, would you please state your full name,” Showalter said when he’d been sworn in.

The man leaned into the microphone, and in a deep voice that was at odds with his appearance boomed, “Orin Webb.”

“What is your occupation?”

“I’m a forensic scientist.”

“How long have you been practicing in this field?”

“A little over thirty years.”

Showalter turned to address the bench. “Your Honor, I’d like to offer Dr. Webb as an expert witness in the field of DNA analysis.”

The judge leaned onto his elbows. “Any objection, Ms. Talltree?”

“None whatsoever—he seems qualified enough.” She sounded almost cheerful. Anna might have wondered if Rhonda hadn’t explained that the advantage to this hearing was the chance to scope out the prosecution’s strategy.