by Parnell Hall
“You’d like to build up some support. Sway public opinion. Perhaps even the jury pool. At least raise the inference the crime was committed by someone else. What better way than to make it look like someone’s trying to kill you?”
“Now you’re claiming I fired the shot myself?”
“I’m not claiming anything. I’m just presenting the facts. If you can explain them, I’d be delighted to listen.”
“She’s not explaining anything,” Becky said. “She’s had a traumatic experience. She’s been knocked unconscious. She may have a concussion. Under the circumstances, when she was shot at it’s entirely possible she pulled a gun and fired a shot at her attacker and doesn’t remember it. I’m not saying she did. I’m just saying it’s entirely possible.”
“Mr. Wilbur only heard one shot.”
“Mr. Wilbur may have fired one shot. I’m not saying he did. I’m just pointing out how much weight his statement is worth.”
“Mr. Wilbur might have fired the shot that whizzed by your client’s head and embedded itself in the wall?”
“We’re not making any accusations,” Cora told him. “We’re just listening to yours and pointing out how stupid they are.”
“Anytime you’re through having fun,” the prosecutor said.
“You call this fun? Trust me, I can think of things more fun.”
“I’m sure you can.” Henry Firth opened his briefcase again, took out a piece of paper. “Miss Felton, we ran a trace on the gun found in your bag. According to the files, this gun was registered to a Mrs. Cora Crabtree, of 890 Park Avenue, New York City.”
Cora nodded. “The best thing about Melvin was his Park Avenue address. I always hated being Cora Crabtree, though. Like I married him for the alliteration.”
Henry ignored this, reached in his briefcase again. “This is a photograph taken of two bullets on a comparison microscope. The bullet on the top is a test bullet fired from the gun found in your purse, the gun registered to Cora Crabtree. The bullet on the bottom is the one dug out of the wall in Wilbur’s barn. They are identical. There is no doubt about it. The bullet you claim whizzed by your head came from your gun.”
“SEE?” BECKY SAID, as they drove away from the police station. “This is why you listen to your lawyer and don’t make any admissions until you know what the facts are.”
“I didn’t make any admissions,” Cora protested.
“All right, what about lies? What about assertions that can be proven false?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You made assertions that can be proven false.”
“That sounds bad. Can I go to jail for that?”
“No, but you can go to jail for murder. And one of the quickest ways to get convicted is by telling lies to the police.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You said someone shot at you.”
“Someone did shoot at me.”
“With the gun in your purse?”
“I admit that sounds bad.”
“It not only sounds bad, it cooks your goose.”
“Do people still use that expression?”
“This isn’t word games, Cora. I’m interested in keeping you out of jail. Just for the record, impugning the character of the prosecutor’s mother is generally considered a poor legal strategy.”
“I implied she was lithe and vigorous.”
“Cora.”
“That was before I realized they framed me with my gun.”
“How did that happen?”
“You’re asking me? I was unconscious.”
“That was after you were shot with your gun. Now, how did that happen?”
“If I knew how that happened, I’d know who shot me.”
“I mean how could it have possibly happened?”
“The easiest explanation is there were two shots. While I was unconscious someone took my gun and fired the second one.”
“That would mean Wilbur did it.”
“Of course. He’s the most likely suspect anyway. The fact he had the chance to fire the second shot puts him way at the top of the list.”
“Who else is on it?”
“It’s a rather short list.”
“You’re not being very helpful.”
“What do you want from me, Becky? I’ve been framed for murder. I don’t know why. I’m trying to work things out.”
“I’m trying to help. If there were two bullets, how come the police only found one?”
“Because they didn’t know there were two bullets. They found one and stopped looking.”
“You mean . . . ?”
Cora shrugged. “I never looked for a bullet hole before. Except in a target. But to find a bullet fired into a wooden wall with not the best of light… I couldn’t really blame Sam Brogan for missing one.”
The cars were gone from Wilbur’s Antiques. The place was dark and quiet.
“Where’s your car?” Becky said.
“Just around the next corner. By the side of the road.”
There was no traffic that time of night. Becky pulled a U-turn, came up behind the car.
Cora opened the door. “Thanks a lot. You’re what I call a full-service lawyer.”
Cora slammed the car door, stood there, and waved good-bye.
Becky didn’t move.
Cora banged on the window. Becky rolled it down.
“Thanks for the ride,” Cora said. “I can find my way home.”
“I know you can. I want to make sure you get home safe.”
“I’m a big girl, Becky.”
“Yeah, but the police have your gun. It’s probably the first time you’ve been unarmed in forty years.”
“Hey!”
“You count on your gun. It’s how you think. You act like you have a gun. Well, you don’t. And if you act like you do, you could get in trouble.”
“Thanks for your concern. I won’t talk to strangers.”
Cora turned on her heel, marched to the Toyota, fished her keys out of her purse, and zapped the lock.
She climbed in, started the car, pulled out, and headed home.
Becky followed right behind, all the way into town, and all the way out again.
Cora set her jaw. Becky lived in town. Was such babysitting really necessary?
Becky didn’t turn back until Cora reached her house.
Cora immediately pulled off to the side of the road and cut her lights. She made a U-turn in the dark—a K-turn, actually, as she recalled from the driving test she took as a girl—snapped her lights on, and headed for town.
Becky Baldwin was waiting for her in front of the library. Becky stepped out into the street, forced Cora to bring her car to a stop.
“I just can’t get you out of jail fast enough,” Becky complained.
“That’s hardly fair.”
“Where are you headed, Cora?”
“Out for coffee.”
Becky greeted this prevarication with an exclamation of disbelief apt to be heard on a cattle ranch.
“Well said. Look. Here’s the deal. You’re my lawyer. It’s your job to keep me out of trouble. That’s what you’re trying to do now. The problem is, you have no real authority to compel the police to make a thorough investigation of Wilbur’s barn for the purpose of determining if a second shot was fired. Even if you could get a court order, by the time you did, such evidence, if it existed, would be long gone.”
“So?”
“So let’s go get it.”
“YOU REALIZE WE could go to jail?” Becky said.
“That’s why I have a lawyer,” Cora told her.
“That won’t help much if your lawyer’s in prison.”
“You worry too much. Wilbur already said he wouldn’t press charges.”
“I don’t think that was an open invitation to do it again.”
“Couldn’t you argue that it was?”
“I can argue anything.”
“There you are.”
Cora opened the pa
ssenger door. “If a car goes by, honk once. If it’s a police car, honk twice.”
Becky looked aghast. “Are you kidding?”
“Yes. Don’t do anything. Just sit here and keep reminding yourself you have a duty to your client.”
“I don’t think that includes being an accomplice.”
“Then we’d better not get caught.”
Cora slipped out of the car and disappeared in the shadows.
The shop was dark. Of course, it should be that time of night, but one never knew. Cora couldn’t help but remember Wilbur’s shotgun. Not that she thought he’d use it on her. But he wouldn’t know in the dark. And buckshot was probably pretty painful. If not fatal.
The phrase give ’em both barrels occurred to Cora.
It did not cheer her.
Cora crept around to the barn. Wilbur hadn’t bothered to board up the window. There was a crime-scene ribbon across the door, and that was it. It was a piece of cake to reach through the broken glass and unlock the door. Of course, that would get her fingerprints on it, but they were already there. Having been found unconscious on the floor, it wasn’t like no one knew she’d been in the barn.
There was nothing to worry about. Becky would probably take her seriously, blow the horn if anyone came. Even though Cora had assured her she was kidding. So if she didn’t hear the horn, everything was fine. A false sense of security, built on a faulty premise. What could be better?
Cora pulled her flashlight out of her purse, played it along the floor. If Wilbur was looking out his back window, he might see it. But if Wilbur was looking out his back window, the game was up anyway.
Come on. Get on with it. If there is a second bullet, where is it?
Never mind if there was a second bullet. There had to be a second bullet. She hadn’t shot herself. That much she knew.
All right. Where was Sam looking?
He was over there, working in this direction. He found the bullet here. So the second bullet wasn’t between here and there, or he’d have found it.
Where was the bullet he found?
Cora had no problem locating that. There was the hole Sam had dug in the wall. Plus he’d drawn a circle around it in magic marker.
Okay. So any second bullet would have to be to the right of that.
Cora shined the light, searched along the wall.
She hadn’t gone more than ten feet when something barred her path.
She shined the light again.
It was a table. Covered by a tarp. A tarp with enforced steel rings.
Of course. That was where she was standing when the shot was fired. She’d found that table, was examining the tarp. The bullet should be right there. Let’s see, she was in the process of raising the tarp. So where would the bullet have gone?
It would depend on the angle from which it was fired. The bullet hole was the right height. But well to the left. Assuming the shooter was standing where Cora had imagined. If Cora was wrong, the shooter would have had to be standing farther to the right, to have missed her head and hit the wall farther to the left.
If it was Sam’s bullet.
But in that case, she would have shot herself with her own gun. Which she knew she didn’t do.
So she had to scour the wall to the right. Where a bullet would have gone if she was bent over picking up the tarp.
She took hold of the edge of the tarp.
All right, what the hell was underneath it? She hadn’t seen last night, and she couldn’t see now. She’d have to bend over farther, pull the tarp up more.
Why bother?
What if the bullet went there.
Then there’d be a hole in the tarp.
There were holes in the tarp. Enforced steel holes.
All right, the bullet went through one of those? You’re getting desperate.
Cora threw back the tarp, shined the flashlight.
She gasped.
Underneath the table were four rattan chairs.
SHERRY CARTER BLINKED bleary eyes up at her aunt. “What time is it?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Cora.”
“Come on, Sherry, wake up.”
“My God, it’s four in the morning!”
“Technically, yes.”
“What do you mean, technically?”
“Well, if you go by the clock.”
“Cora.”
“Come on, Sherry. I need your help.”
“What help could you possibly need at four in the morning?”
“Help with the computer.”
“What for?”
“I need to do a search.”
“You know how to Google.”
“It’s not a Google search.”
“What kind of search is it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That doesn’t help much.”
“No, but it woke you up. Come on, splash some water on your face and meet me in the study.”
Minutes later Sherry padded down the hall, to find Cora sitting at the computer with Google open.
“You are Googling,” Sherry said.
“No, I’m staring at the screen. It’s not quite the same thing.”
“What do you want to trace?”
“Wilbur’s missing chairs.”
“Why do you want to trace them?”
“I found them.”
“Where?”
“In Wilbur’s barn.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. They were never stolen.”
“But Wilbur thought they were?”
“No, he knew they weren’t.”
“But he reported them stolen.”
“Yeah. He’s guilty of filing a false report. If I were a cop, I’d have to arrest him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Join the club. So, here’s what I wanna do. I want to trace the stolen chairs.”
“But you know where they are.”
“Right. But I wanna pretend I don’t, start over, and see where they are.”
“And your search will lead you to Wilbur’s barn?”
“I’m hoping it won’t.”
“I can see why Google won’t help you.”
“Yeah. So what will?”
“A therapist, an exorcist, and a psychic.” Sherry yawned, stretched. “I’d better make coffee. You’re making less sense than usual.”
“I’m not quite awake.”
Sherry went into the kitchen, measured coffee into the automatic drip machine.
Cora followed her, sat down, lit a cigarette.
“Are you going to smoke in the kitchen?”
“I figured you were too tired to argue.”
Sherry put milk and sugar on the table, sat opposite Cora. “Okay, coffee’s brewing. Fill me in on your Internet search.”
“I broke into Wilbur’s barn last night.”
“That’s how you know about the chairs?”
“No, that’s how I got arrested and shot at.”
“What!?”
“Or vice versa. I actually got shot at and arrested. The other way makes no sense.”
“Nothing you’re saying makes any sense. What the hell are you talking about?”
“It didn’t make the late news? I’m crushed.”
Cora gave Sherry a rundown of her escapade in Wilbur’s barn.
“You broke into his barn twice?”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter.”
“What?”
“Well, the first time he’s not pressing charges, and the second time he doesn’t know.”
“But the cops have your gun and think you shot yourself?”
“They think I fired a bullet into the wall and pretended someone shot at me.”
“So you went back into the barn to look for the other bullet, but you quit when you found the chairs?”
“Are you kidding me? I went over those walls with a fine-tooth comb. If there’s a bullet in the barn, I can’t find it.”
“Is there a place a bullet might have been dug out of?”
“Just mine.”
“So where is it?”
“Maybe it went out the window. Maybe there were two guys, and one of them’s wearing it. There’s lots of possibilities, just none that I can prove.”
“Great.” Sherry got up, poured coffee.
Cora took hers, slopped in milk and sugar, took a gulp. “Where’s Aaron?”
“He went home.”
“On good terms?”
“Not really.”
“How come?”
“We had another fight. We went to the movies to make up.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Me running out in the middle didn’t help.”
“I’m sure you blamed me.”
“That was small consolation.”
“I mean to Aaron.”
“So do I.”
Cora chugged the rest of her coffee, pushed the cup back, and got up. “Come on. Let’s go Google.”
Sherry took her coffee into the office and sat at the computer. “What do you want to Google? Oh, I forgot, you don’t know, do you?”
“Not really. I gotta find out why Wilbur stole his own chairs.”
“Why in the world would he?”
“I don’t know. I’m beginning to think it has something to do with the Kleinsmidt diamonds.”
“Wait a minute. I thought the Kleinsmidt diamonds don’t exist.”
“They don’t.”
Sherry cocked her head ironically. “I can see why this might be tough to Google.”
CORA FELTON DROVE down the driveway just as Dennis Pride turned in. She spun the wheel, hit the brake, and skidded sideways, blocking the drive.
Cora was out the door before her car even stopped moving. She descended on Dennis, leveled a finger, and suggested if he were to back up it would be better for all involved, though not exactly in those words.
Dennis hopped out of his car with his hands raised, just as if he’d been stopped for reckless driving and was eager to show the arresting officer that he was sober and unarmed.
“Don’t get out of your car,” Cora told him. “Get back in your car, turn around, drive off, and don’t stop until you run out of gas.”
“I didn’t come to see Sherry. I came to see you.”
“I don’t date married men.”
That tripped him up. Dennis couldn’t think of a single response that wouldn’t get him in trouble. It was almost comical. After an awkward pause, he opted to ignore the remark completely. “I followed him last night.”
