The Last Innocent Hour

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  “What?” And then Jane understood, and said, “Oh, no.”

  “Why not? Wait until you see him. Dark hair, blue eyes. Tall. He's going to make somebody feel very lucky.”

  “If he's such a catch, how come you don't snap him up? You're single and looking, or so you’ve said.”

  “We're practically related.” Sharon looked over Jane’s shoulder. “Nothing ever sparked between us, I guess.”

  “Maybe I'm already married.”

  “You aren't wearing a ring.”

  “I could have lost it like my purse. Anyway, meeting a man is the last thing on my mind.” Jane toyed with her mug.

  Sharon said, “I keep waiting to get a fit on a missing persons report.”

  “I know.”

  “The police haven't been much help. You know how it is. Not enough money, not enough personnel, not enough time.” Sharon stopped short of saying no one cared.

  “What if I never remember?” Jane asked.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Charlie’s first court appointed attorney was a fresh-faced kid just out of law school named Peter Spires. But that changed. The day after he entered his not guilty plea, Lance Devers brought Bert Jessup to the visitation room and made the introductions. “Bert here's a damn fine lawyer. You're lucky to get him.”

  Charlie was instantly suspicious. “What happened to Spires? What was wrong with him?”

  “Got sick.” Devers grinned. “Believe me, this is your lucky day. Right, Bert?”

  Jessup showed his teeth, extended his hand. Charlie looked at it. The manicure was immaculate, as if Jessup had come straight from the nail salon. Charlie sat down.

  Unperturbed, Jessup said he was familiar with Charlie’s case. “Lance filled me in.”

  “If you listened to Devers,” Charlie said, “what you're familiar with is Tinker's lies.”

  “Told you he was a hard ass and ungrateful to boot. Get him the best lawyer in the county, and look how he acts.” Lance went to the door. “Holler when you’re ready to go. I’ll be right outside.”

  Bert nodded, set down his briefcase and fussed with the snowy French cuffs of his starched white shirt. Charlie caught the wink of diamonds.

  “That attitude won't do you or your case any good.” Jessup sat across from Charlie. He opened the briefcase, took out a yellow legal pad. “Mr. Tinker is a pillar of Wither Creek society, one of the finest men in the county.”

  “He's a killer.” Charlie leaned against the back of his chair. He didn’t like the smell of Jessup’s cologne.

  “Regardless of your opinion, you're not winning friends talking this way.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours, of course. But it's my duty to make you understand that Mr. Tinker is well known and well liked here. You, on the other hand, are a stranger. Your constant threats and accusations against him are causing you to lose any chance for a fair trial. Why not concentrate on proving your innocence instead of making him out to be the guilty party?”

  Charlie looked at the ceiling. He didn’t need a roadmap to know Jessup was Tinker's man, handpicked to lose. Why else would they suddenly switch lawyers on him? Peter Spires had never talked about Tinker like he was the second coming. “Are you at all interested in the truth?” Charlie leveled his glance at Jessup. “Beth was in the house when Tinker murdered her mother. I’m betting that she saw what he did; Tinker knows it, and he went after her. She’s a witness; he doesn’t want her found.”

  The corners of Bert’s mouth lifted in a wintry smile. “Oh, but he's looking for her harder than anybody. He hired a private detective. He feels it’s his duty to inform Beth of her mother’s death.”

  Charlie straightened. “No! Listen to me! She’s a witness. If Tinker finds her, he'll kill her. She's in danger. Don't you see?”

  Bert brought his hands together. The ruby on his pinky finger flashed. “If only you could have some idea how insane your thinking is.”

  Charlie jabbed his finger within inches of the wide-eyed lawyer's face, cutting his speech. “You're the one who's insane! You and every other sonofabitch in this town. You have the wrong guy.”

  Jessup stowed his legal pad, snapped his case shut and stood up, calling for the deputy.

  “Tinker won't get away with this,” Charlie said as Jessup stepped into the corridor. “You tell him,” Charlie shouted. “I’ll never stop looking for my family. Tell him I don't care how long I’m in for, my memory is longer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It was outrage rather than true grief that was in evidence at Lucy's funeral. Folks in Wither Creek were furious at the way a stranger had come into their town and taken the life of one of their own. Never mind how they'd sneered at Lucy Farrell Clayton Tinker when she was alive. In death, she belonged to them, and a wolf had come among them and taken her. Suppose that animal got loose? Why should a monster like that be accorded due process? Public lynching. That's what was called for.

  Maybe Lucy Tinker's untimely death would stand for something, they said, if Cunningham got strung up in the public square.

  At the graveside, Jimmy stood beside Jason, and looking over the assemblage, he said he was pleased. “This is working out better than I thought. Keep up the acting job, and you've got nothing to worry about.”

  But Jimmy was wrong, and Jason knew it when Lance paid him an “unofficial” visit at Lucy’s house a couple of days later.

  “I thought I ought to warn you,” the deputy said.

  Jason widened the front door. “What about?”

  The deputy swept his hat from his head and gestured with it. “Cunningham says you're the killer. He says you did your wife.”

  “We both know that's a load of bullshit. I was with Jimmy that night.”

  “Yeah, so you say and Jimmy, too.” He paused.

  Jason waited.

  Dever’s glanced at him. “I done what Jimmy said and checked out Cunningham’s alibi, took his mug shot and showed it around at the racetrack.”

  “And?”

  “Nobody remembered him.”

  “Well, there you go. He’s a liar just like we thought the night we caught him here.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Dever’s turned his hat brim in his hands. “Ain't nobody told me yet exactly what's going down here, and I can't say I mind most of the town thinking I made the collar of the century, but I ain't dumb. Maybe you and Jimmy done messed around the wrong guy, though. You ever think’a that?”

  Jason thanked Lance for coming and shut the door in the deputy’s face. It was probably a bad idea, but he was sick of performing like a trained seal.

  A week later, when Royce came up from Houston, he told Jason to quit his bitching. “You’re going to be a wealthy man once the estate is settled.”

  Jason had brought Royce into the library, poured them each a beer, but now, he set his down without drinking. He didn’t like sitting in here under scrutiny from the Clayton ancestors whose portraits lined the walls. It made him nervous as hell; he couldn’t swallow. All the painted eyes, he could feel them boring into him. He’d take the paintings down, he thought, as soon as Royce left, and burn the shitty things. After all this was his house now. He could do as he pleased here.

  Royce said Yamaguchi and the rest of the investors had returned to Japan as scheduled.

  Jason forced himself to focus.

  “I assured Mr. Yamaguchi your ah--situation wouldn't delay ground breaking,” Royce said.

  Jason had always appreciated the way Royce treated him as an equal, and with respect, but then Royce was an educated professional, not a redneck like Jimmy Lee. Didn't take a college degree to recognize the difference.

  “By the way, Yamaguchi’s okayed the name we came up with for the project.”

  “Houston Sun International?”

  Royce looked abashed. “No, we had to go with Lutie’s suggestion.”

  “Wither Creek Development? Are you kidding? You know how that sounds? Like fucking hickville.�
�

  “I know, I know. But how could I argue? The deal's on track. That's the thing. Closings are in progress.” Royce drained his beer, set the mug down. “Lucy’s estate should settle in about six weeks. But I'm trying to speed things up. We need to get the land clear.”

  He clapped a hand on Jason's shoulder. “Forgive me if I sound callous.”

  “Don't worry about it. I just hope the publicity stays local.”

  Royce was reassuring. “Other than the short article I told you about in the Houston Chronicle last week, there hasn't been another mention of it. Houston's got enough of its own crime to report on. Doubt they've got the space to devote to this.”

  Jason wished that were true of the Wither Creek Tribune. But as much as the town bemoaned the fact, Lucy's murder was the biggest thing to happen in the area in recent history. The crime was featured on the front page nearly every day beneath a big splashy headline above a grainy photograph of Lucy alone, or more often a shot of Jason and Lucy together at some charity event, she clinging to his elbow, smiling that drunken vacant smile. When Jason looked at that photo, he was glad she was dead.

  The day in late August before the trial was scheduled to start, Jason opened the local morning paper and found Cunningham's mug shot staring out at him and before he could think, he’d grabbed a kitchen knife and exed the likeness into oblivion. Nothing was left afterward but a shredded hole in the center of the page and the damage he'd done to the table beneath it.

  That night, he couldn’t sleep. He paced the floor alone in the master suite he’d once shared with Lucy, and his head hummed its insistent frenzied song, and images careened in his mind like bumper cars: Lucy, his mother, Lucy ... his mother ... his motherthebitchbitchbitch....

  His mother. The bitch. It had begun with her, hadn’t it? She'd treated him to the same cheap scorn as Lucy. She’d used him and lied to him. Played him for a fool.

  Where'd it get you, bitch? he asked her ghost deep in the night. Dead, he answered himself. But it was her laughter that rang off the floor of his mind. The raucous sound of it mixed with the clatter of her heels on the stairs. Red heels. They'd been red, hadn't they? Like Beth's high ass-baring shorts.

  Jason glanced around, but instead of wallpaper printed with white roses, red slopped the bedroom walls--wet oozing red. Panic set in. His hands shook, and he raised them to eye level. What the hell had he done? But no, no. Don't think about it ... no....

  o0o

  In the courtroom, Jimmy Lee became, for the space of Charlie Cunningham’s trial, Jason's watch dog, his shadow, as if his presence could prevent some unknown but potentially damaging slip-up on Jason’s part. “Somebody's got to make sure you don't lose it, old son. Somebody's got to see to it you keep your shit together.”

  Jason hated it, the sense of being inferior to Jimmy, indebted to him. Jason hated the feel of Jimmy's elbow in his ribs every time a witness delivered the scripted testimony. The first time Jimmy nudged him was when Lance Devers was asked about the forensic evidence and admitted that it had been lost.

  “They've been cleaning house in the evidence room,” the deputy said. “We done tore the place up, but it looks like maybe it was throwed out by mistake.”

  Jason caught Jimmy's elbow again when it came to light that an autopsy on the murder victim hadn't been performed. Seemed the county coroner had been ill the night of the crime and had sent his son to collect Miz Tinker's body. The son, unaware of procedure in such cases, had seized the opportunity to work on his own and prepared the body for embalming. The coroner was able to make a cursory examination the morning of the funeral service, but his son had done such a beautiful job, he could find nothing substantial. Burial of the remains proceeded.

  Jason watched the coroner return to his seat, and then, almost against his will, felt his gaze drift toward the defense table. Cunningham was twisted around staring at him, his eyes needle-sharp and fearless. He would wait, his eyes said. He would see Jason in hell if that’s how long it took. Jason jerked his glance away.

  Evenings after court proceedings concluded for the day, Jimmy took Jason to dinner in town. Folks came by their table, patted Jason's back and said they were praying for him. Several of them said they hoped Cunningham would get the death penalty. Jason fervently agreed but for wholly different reasons.

  One evening, after they finished their steaks, Jimmy insisted on coming home with Jason. For a drink he said, but Jason knew he was in baby-sitting mode, making sure Jason didn't crack up, make some irretrievable mistake.

  He gathered the refreshments onto a tray at the bar in the library and brought it to where Jimmy sat in the solarium. He hadn't done any entertaining in the library since his meeting with Royce. Setting the tray down, he mixed Jimmy a scotch and water and poured himself a beer.

  Jimmy savored a swallow of his drink and said something about how you had to admire Lucy’s taste for alcohol. He smacked his lips.

  Jason settled into a cushioned rattan chair next to him.

  “You know, much as you and everybody might want it, Cunningham won't get the death penalty.” Jimmy held up his glass, eyeballing the contents. “Ain't enough money and influence in the state to buy a lethal injection on a manslaughter charge. We're doing good to get it this far.”

  Jason stared at his reflection caught in the darkened windows of the solarium, only half listening, thinking he wasn't more comfortable drinking out here than in the library. And no wonder. This had always been Lucy's room, her space, and since her death, didn't the whole goddamned house feel alien? He was getting out of here as soon as the trial was over. Yamaguchi had talked about making it part of the country club lay-out, a restaurant maybe, or the clubhouse building itself. Jason didn't give a shit what got done with it. Nothing but devils lived here.

  “You hear what I said?” Jimmy sounded annoyed. “Don't be surprised if he doesn't get more than ten years.”

  “Royce said he might not do five. He'll come up for parole. He'll get out. I wish there was a way to get rid of him. Now. For good.”

  “Relax. Cunningham's life won't be worth a pot to piss in once he's locked up. You ever been inside a penitentiary?”

  Jason hadn’t. “I never had a reason.”

  “Well, it ain't a church social. Especially for a guy who's got all his teeth and a tight ass. Cunningham'll be somebody's bitch inside of six weeks.” Jimmy grinned, tipped his drink and his gaze toward Jason. “Or he'll be dead.”

  Jason returned Jimmy’s salute as if he shared Jimmy’s conviction, when he didn’t. Jimmy underestimated Charlie. Jimmy didn't understand that Cunningham meant it when he said he’d come up from hell if that's what it took to find his wife and kid ... if that's what it took to even the score. He'd come up with his hair on fire.

  “I got my campaign to worry about,” Jimmy was saying, “and you got business with Yamaguchi. I heard he wants you to come on as CEO.”

  “We should do it ourselves.”

  “Do what?” Jimmy sounded annoyed again.

  “Take care of Cunningham. As soon as the estate settles, I could pay to have somebody--”

  “No way.” Jimmy set his glass down hard. “Once the trial ends, we're going to leave it alone, hear me? We're going to let nature take its course. I've done as much for you as I can. I think it's time for you to concentrate on what you're going to do for me. What do you say, old son?”

  Jason didn’t answer. He finished his beer and watched Jimmy’s mirrored reflection shift its considerable bulk side-to-side in sharp irritation. He thought of running Jimmy’s head through the glass window opposite him, thought of shattering that fucking image.

  “Look here,” Jimmy said, “I've called in a ton of markers on your behalf. I owe half the people in the state of Texas a favor on account of this mess you’re in, and Yamaguchi's as nervous as a whore in church.”

  “I've talked to him. He's fine, anxious to get the groundbreaking underway. He knows we're committed.”

  “I'm anxious to
get my campaign underway.” Jimmy pointed a baleful stare at Jason. “When the trial's done, and you get up and walk out of the courtroom a free man, you best remember what you owe me.”

  Jason bit back an urge to remind Jimmy he was an accessory, and the following day, day three of the trial, when he was called to the stand to give testimony--the last witness for the prosecution--he sat in the chair beside the judge's bench and kept his glance clear of Jimmy.

  And under guidance from the DA, he repeated the story Jimmy had invented for him on the night of the murder. He quoted the details with ease as if they were true. At Bert's cross examination, Jason never faltered. He knew the drill; he'd been coached. He showed his emotion; the devastation of his loss was plain in every line of his face, every inflection of his voice. His testimony hammered the final nail in Cunningham's coffin, and in less than half an hour, it was over; the judge said he could step down. Jason felt the waves of sympathy radiate toward him from the spectators and the jury. He knew without seeing it that compassion watered their eyes as they watched him resume his seat beside Jimmy at the back of the courtroom.

  He closed his eyes briefly. It was too easy. Why didn't someone guess?

  The prosecution rested; the judge called it a day and excused the jury. Jimmy prodded Jason into the aisle.

  “Hey, Tinker!”

  Jason wheeled.

  “You’re a dead man!” Charlie lunged like he might leap over the rail. The bailiff and a cop grabbed him.

  “Go on,” Jimmy muttered and Jason did.

  Outside, a reporter for the Wither Creek Tribune came up to him. “Say, Mr. Tinker, is it true that no witnesses are scheduled for the defense?”

  Jason glanced toward the street where Lance and Jimmy were getting into Jimmy's big black Lincoln Continental. The three of them were due to meet at Jimmy's office at the garage for pizza. Jason rubbed a hand over his head. He shrugged. “No witnesses for the defense? I hadn't heard that.”

  The reporter grinned. He was twitchy, as if he had someplace to be, big plans. “Well, off the record, you must be relieved you got this guy. Your testimony cinched it. Too bad they aren't all this easy, huh?”