Miz Scarlet and the Acrimonious Attorney

by Sara M. Barton

  “It’s a long story. Maybe I should put a pot of coffee on,” I suggested.

  “I have a better idea,” Kenny said sagely. “Let’s turn the alarm back on and get to bed.”

  “But what about the police...shouldn’t we call them?”

  “There’s no need for them to come out. I’ll brief them.”

  “I’m not sure I can handle much more drama. What can possibly go wrong next?”

  “Don’t think of this as a bad thing, Miz Scarlet.”

  “How can you say that?” Jenny wanted to know. The windows are broken.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s true. But this confirms what we already suspected. The Francos and the Boxers are working together to help the Kitanens. That means you can go ahead and countersue.”

  “We can?”

  “You can.”

  “Awesome!” I kissed him on the lips, feeling vindicated.

  “I wish I knew what was going on,” Kara sighed, shaking her head.

  “I’ll walk you back to your room and explain on the way,” I promised. I did just that, guiding her through the double doors of the living room, accompanied by Jenny. We climbed the stairs to the second floor as I shared our story about the Kitanens and their lawsuit. Kara expressed disbelief at the claim that the Four Acorns Inn was unsafe. By the time we left her at her doorway and headed up to the third floor, Jenny and I were ready to climb back into our beds and get back to sleep.

  I had barely pulled the covers up, surrounded by the now-quiet dogs, when there was a knock on the door. That got the dogs going again. It was a real bark fest.

  “Can I come in?” Kenny called out, trying to be heard over the din.

  “Of course.” I was a little confused about his appearance on the third floor, given that he was bleary-eyed the last time I saw him. “What’s up?”

  “The Francos apparently created a distraction on their way out of the inn, Scarlet.”

  “Why would they need to create a distraction?” I wanted to know.

  “They did it so that their friends could come back for their stuff. The Boxers probably planned to wait until the alarm was silenced to let themselves in. I suspect they were going to use the back stairs to sneak upstairs and retrieve their stuff while their friends caused a ruckus, but it was a no-go.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “The Francos didn’t realize you have double locks on the porch door. They undid the button on the knob, but missed the deadbolt at the top of the door. When Bob and Rosemary couldn’t open the door, they broke the glass pane by the door knob. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Are the Boxers still here?”

  “No, when they saw me coming, they fled.”

  “Now what do we do?”

  “Nothing. I’ve already called the Cheswick Police Department and reported the incident over the phone. I gave them a description of the Boxers’ vehicle and the plate number. They’ll pick them up if they see them in town.”

  But the Cheswick police had no luck that night. The Boxers got away, and I had to console myself with the fact that they would be arrested if they returned.

  Looking back, I remembered the events of that night so clearly because after the Boxers tried to break in, but failed, I believed the trouble was over for us. The Kitanens faced serious scrutiny in the courtroom if they proceeded with their lawsuit. Kenny was confident that he’d be able to connect the dots and probably would find at least one insurance company willing to press charges for fraud.

  That’s why I was so shocked that C. Philip Grimshaw adamantly insisted that we couldn’t counter the Kitanens’ lawsuit. Was it really only two hours ago that we had that heated discussion in the conference room? It still didn’t seem real to me.

  As I left I-384 and took a right off the ramp, I tried to come up with a motive for the murder. There was something about it that spooked me. Why would someone use that kind of knife to kill?

  Chapter Nine

  “It had to be a premeditated act. Someone was really, really mad at the guy.” I flipped on my blinker and drove into the driveway of the Four Acorns Inn. “Somebody hated him.”

  Was the killer a disgruntled client who was angry with the lawyer because he got the same kind of lousy advice that I got? Or was he an opponent in the courtroom, who was on the losing end of a lawsuit, thanks to C. Philip Grimshaw?

  I thought about people who had irritated me past the point of sanity at one time or another in my lifetime. Not once had it ever occurred to me to kill any of them. But even if it had, I wouldn’t have used a knife like that. Why?

  “Too mean...too messy. Ugh!” I shivered again, remembering that horrid sight of the victim on the ground.

  But an experienced hunter would be capable of thrusting the knife into the acrimonious attorney’s chest without flinching. Or a man who was so angry, so filled with hate, that he didn’t see the victim as a human being. The pure adrenaline rush inspired by a passionate loathing of the man would fuel such madness, suppressing any conscious recognition of the wrongness of the killing.

  Was this a case of love gone wrong? The French believe in crimes of passion. All that emotional turmoil can cause us to lose all our good sense. One minute, your lover announces he is leaving you for another woman, and the next, you suddenly become aware that you’ve plunged that corkscrew right through his heart. Not that I personally would ever do anything like that. Kenny has suggested on occasion that my propensity to debate a point makes my tongue as sharp as a knife, but that doesn’t make me a potential killer. I would never attack the man who holds my heart in his hands.

  “But I can’t see Grimacing Grimshaw as some kind of Don Juan. What woman would want to invite him to eat crackers in her bed? Kissing him would be like swapping spit with a dead fish. That’s enough to give me the willies.”

  Try again, Miz Scarlet. C. Philip Grimshaw was no Kenny Tolliver; far from it. I only spent a little more than a half an hour with the man and I found him absolutely maddening. So, would I have eventually been tempted to take a whack at the guy?

  “It would depend on what he did to me and the effect it had on my life,” I said aloud to myself, a bad habit I seemed to have acquired over the last couple of years. At the rate I was going, I was likely to become one of those crazy cat ladies, with thirty assorted tabbies lounging all over my living room in my dotage, just so I wouldn’t look like an idiot for talking to myself. I could imagine the conversations that would take place. “Fluffy, Mommy thinks that nasty man strangled his wife and buried her under the azaleas. What do you think?” It’s probably easier to just stick a Bluetooth earpiece in my ear and pretend I’m on the phone.

  I was certain that Grimacing Grimshaw could be a real stinker in a courtroom. He could probably be a stinker just about anywhere else...and to anyone else. So, who would he have pushed over the edge? His garage mechanic might have felt like punching his lights out when he bickered about the cost of repairs on that Cadillac Esplanade. His paralegal might have resented the fact that he insisted at the last minute that she give up her weekend to help him prepare for a court appearance. The man behind the counter at his local deli could have felt like tossing that cream of broccoli soup at the guy for complaining that it was too hot or too spicy. I also assumed he would be unbearable on the golf course, the tennis court, or even at an investment club meeting.

  But again I had to admit that most people who wanted to murder someone probably would not have chosen that hunting knife. The garage mechanic had so many options if he wanted to get revenge on the mouthy legal eagle. He surely knew hundreds of ways to mess with a car and probably a couple of those could prove to be fatal. The paralegal probably resented giving up her weekend, but she could have delivered a wicked wedgie with his legal briefs, one that probably would have embarrassed him in front of a judge and his opposing counsel. And as for the deli guy, he could have discouraged C. Philip Grimshaw from frequenting his restaurant simply by getting the order wrong again and again, keeping it up unti
l the annoying soup aficionado finally found somewhere else to eat.

  In other words, normal people had no real need to kill. They had plenty of other options for handling their rage, most of them non-lethal.

  “That narrows the field of suspects considerably,” I told myself as I parked my Ford Focus in my garage bay. “But it still doesn’t nail down a possible motive.”

  Certainly power could have been a factor. C. Philip Grimshaw, in his legal capacity, might have prevented the killer from reaching his goal, or he could have taken something away from him in a lawsuit. This could be the outcome of a long-simmering grudge, couldn’t it?

  I unlocked the back door and let myself in. Laurel and Lacey were in the living room, watching TV. I took a deep breath and broke the news to them. As usual, their reactions were less than kind.

  “Did the police arrest you, Scarlet?” was the first thing out of my mother’s mouth.

  “Obviously not, Laurel. There’s no ink on her hands, so we know they didn’t fingerprint her,” said the other Googins girl. “Have they completely ruled you out as a suspect?”

  “Maybe we should hire an attorney, just in case,” my mother suggested. I could tell that she was already picturing me in that ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, languishing in the bowels of the local jail with an assortment of prostitutes, thieves, and scammers while I waited for someone to post my bail. How much would that be on a felony murder charge?

  “Ladies, please!” I slumped down onto the sofa. “This whole mess started because I made an appointment with that idiot lawyer!”

  “I don’t think you should go around talking about the dead man that way, Scarlet. Someone might misunderstand you.”

  “Someone killed the guy, Mom. I’m pretty sure he made a regular habit of driving people bananas. He was a real horse’s pitootie.”

  “Still....”

  That was the moment when I heard a welcome sound. Ding dong!

  “Saved by the bell,” I mumbled, grateful that the disruption ended another lecture on how to avoid trouble from the two ladies who wrote the book on meddling. I crossed the foyer and opened the door, only to come face-to-face with the two Hartford detectives.

  “Hi. What brings you out to Cheswick? Did you apprehend the killer?” I inquired of them. “That was quick work.”

  John Bona shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, and suddenly thought better of it. He glanced over at his partner. This was a man who respected the pecking order.

  “Scarlet, I wonder if we could come in and speak with you.” Vinnie’s voice was stern. It didn’t bode well. I got the impression I was in trouble with the law.

  “Sure. Why don’t we go into the dining room,” I suggested. “Follow me.”

  I led the way down the hallway, aware that something had changed since I had left them in Hartford. Had there been another murder?

  “Here we are.” I gestured towards the table, offering them seats, while I closed the double doors of the dining room. “Can I get you gentlemen some coffee?”

  “No, no.” My intuition was spot on. Vinnie was no longer the friendly cop I met in the parking garage a short time ago. Why did the detective look at me that way? Was I a suspect?

  “Is something wrong?”

  “We spoke with some of Mr. Grimshaw’s employees. They conveyed to us a threat you made to him.”

  “I didn’t threaten him,” I replied as calmly as I could, even though my heart was thumping so hard, I thought it would breach my chest wall.

  “You don’t think ‘kill all the lawyers’ sounds menacing?” he demanded sternly.

  “Shakespeare’s quote? Of course not. It’s not about killing lawyers because they’re annoying. It’s about the bad guys inciting lawlessness. In the play, Henry VI, the judges and lawyers who fought for justice are the heroes, not the villains. I made the comment after C. Philip Grimshaw recommended that I pay a couple of con artists, who concocted a phony injury in order to coerce ten thousand dollars out of us, claiming we run an unsafe inn.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Vinnie Homs crossed his arms as he leaned back in his chair. It didn’t take a genius to see he thought I was lying.

  “Just because most people believe Shakespeare advocated murdering lawyers, it doesn’t make it so.”

  “Okay. Let’s leave that for just a minute. Why don’t you start by telling us how your fingerprints got on Mr. Grimshaw’s briefcase?”

  “What?” I was flabbergasted. “What are you talking about?”

  “We found your fingerprints on it.”

  “My fingerprints? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I’m afraid it does.”

  “But how could you possibly have my fingerprints?” I held up my hands. They were clean and ink-free.

  “The State Police sent them over.”

  “Sorry?” Now I was really confused. “Why would the State Police have my fingerprints? I’ve never been arrested.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course I am.” I was totally baffled. “Is this some kind of a joke? Did Larry put you up to this?”

  “Is this the best you can do? You’re going to stick to that story?”

  “Show me my fingerprints,” I demanded. Detective Homs reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He opened it up and slid it across the table.

  “There you go. Those are your prints on file.”

  “My prints....” I stared down at the black marks on the page, desperately trying to recall any time in my past when I was fingerprinted by any police department, but I came up empty. “I...I...Hey, this isn’t me!”

  I pushed the paper back to him, tapping on the name. He glanced up expectantly.

  “I am not Susan Wilson.”

  “Of course you are. Isn’t that your birth date?”

  “It may be my birth date, but it isn’t my name.”

  “Scarlet is not a nickname?”

  “Good heavens, no! I come from a family with a penchant for naming offspring after oak trees. I was named for the Scarlet Oak. One of my brothers is named for the Bur Oak, another is named for the Emory Oak, and the third is....”

  “Okay, okay. I get it.”

  “Palmer Oak,” I continued. “My mother is named after the Laurel Oak....”

  “Got it!” He threw his hands into the air.

  “My brother’s son is named....”

  “Stop already!”

  “So, how can my fingerprints be on that briefcase if I’m not Susan Wilson?” I demanded hotly.

  “I was simply trying to verify....”

  “Bulldocky! You were lying, hoping that I’d cave in and confess! Is there even a Susan Wilson with the same birth date, or did you make that crap up too?”

  “Take it easy,” he warned me. “I’m trying to do my job here!”

  “By lying?”

  “Okay, maybe that was a mistake. But we have two witnesses who heard you talk about killing lawyers.”

  “Obviously they are not familiar with Shakespeare!”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “What are you really doing here? You can’t possibly think I’m a viable suspect!”

  “The boss wants this case solved quickly,” John Bona spoke up. “We just thought that if we put some pressure on you and you were involved, you’d give yourself away.”

  “But you’re totally missing the boat on this,” was my reply. “Can’t you see that the average person isn’t going to use a knife that’s so...so...unwieldy?”

  “What?” Vinnie Homs made a face, trying to dismiss my theory. “How do you even begin to defend that contention?”

  “It’s simple really. Look at me. If I was going to kill the guy with that knife, I’d have to use two hands on the knife, wouldn’t I?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s so heavy and the handle is too big for someone like me to hold in one hand.” I held up my palms and spread my fingers to show them the width and breadth of my grasp. �
��The man in the parking garage was tall and thin, with large hands.

  “Your logic is faulty.” Vinnie shook his head.

  “No, it’s not,” I insisted confidently. “That knife wasn’t buried an inch or two in soft tissue. It was deeply imbedded in Grimshaw’s chest. It probably even struck bone.”

  “It was really stuck in there,” John agreed.

  “I think the killer knew how to use that knife. The first strike was good.”

  “She has a point.” The younger man glanced over at his colleague. “It was the only wound on the body.”

  Vinnie said nothing as he watched me with eyes sharp enough to drill a hole through my forehead. I resisted the temptation to shield myself from his scrutiny by slapping my hands in front of my face. If I was guilty, I probably would have confessed, just to keep him from creeping me out with that stare. Finally, he lowered his gaze. I took a deep breath, relieved.

  “Tell me again about the tall man in the blue ski jacket.” Vinnie pulled his iPad out of his briefcase and swiped the screen. He retrieved his stylus, ready to jot down what I said.

  I went back in my mind, trying to remember any little detail that might help the detectives identify Grimacing Grimshaw’s killer.

  “He came at me so fast that I was startled. I was terrified that he was going to attack me. I fell backwards, trying to get away from him.”

  Closing my eyes, I tried to recall those frightening seconds. What did I see as that man stepped out from behind the car?

  “He wasn’t surprised I was there.”

  “Why would he be? He could hear you talking on the phone.”

  “No, I mean he was expecting me to be there. He came back to collect the briefcase and the wallet, but it didn’t bother him that I was there.”

  “Maybe he watched you for a while before he made his approach. Or he listened to your conversation.

  “Maybe he did.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us about the man you saw?”

  “Yes, the killer....”

  “Since you didn’t actually see him murder the victim, he’s not technically a suspect. He’s a person of interest, with whom we’d like to speak.”