But I’d worried for nothing. The parking lot was nearly empty and no one hung around outside when I paid the taxi driver and got into my car. The memory of last night seemed like a bad dream until I noticed a piece of paper stuck under my windshield wiper.
My pulse pounded in my head as I climbed out and grabbed the slip, then jumped back into my car and locked the door. I carefully opened the paper as though the contents were going to jump out and bite me. I found a short message scrawled in block letters.
I don’t like people messing in my business.
Moving to Little Rock seemed like the best idea since the Earl of Sandwich came up with his ingenious discovery. But moving meant packing.
I needed boxes.
I decided the hardware store was the best place to stop. Wandering the aisles proved fruitless—they must have been reorganized since the last time I’d bought packing supplies. Since I was close to the paint department, I decided to ask at the counter. Anne stood next to the paint machine, staring off into the distance. A smile brightened her face when she saw me and walked over.
“Hey, I remember you. How’d your paintin’ project go? You back for more?”
“Oh! It went great. My boyfriend ended up helping and I was done in no time.” I waved my hand. “This time I’m lookin’ for boxes. Moving boxes. They aren’t where I found them last time.”
“Take a look-see over by the lawn and garden aisle. I think the new manager moved ’em over there.”
“Thanks, Anne.”
She grinned when I said her name.
I started walking away when she hollered after me, “That guy was back this weekend.”
My breath caught in my chest, and I slowly spun around to face her. “The looky-loo guy?”
Pinching her lips together in a grimace, she nodded. “Yep.”
I took several steps closer. What was I doing? I was no longer interested in the Bruce Wayne Decker case. I reminded myself that Mason Deveraux was right. Bruce needed to stand up for himself. Turn around and walk away. Instead, I moved next to the counter, leaning close to Anne. “What was he doin’?”
“He was snoopin’ around the back.”
“Why?”
“Good question. The plumbing manger caught him back there and asked him what he was doin’, but the guy ran off before he answered.”
“Was he in his thirties? Big muscles and with tattoos on his arms?”
She shook her head, confused. “No, he’s a short bald guy.”
“What?” That didn’t match the description of any of the men I saw last night.
“Yeah, dress pants and shirt. Tie. Professional guy. Kind of mousy.”
I sagged into the counter. That wasn’t Skeeter or his pals at all.
“And it’s the same guy who kept showing up after the murder?”
“Yep, one and the same.”
That didn’t make sense. If it wasn’t Skeeter, who was he? It had to be the guy who wanted to buy Frank Mitchell’s house. And if Skeeter wasn’t the murderer, then I wasn’t in the danger that Mason Deveraux thought I was.
Stop thinking about it, Rose. You’ve let this go. You’re not working on this anymore.
But I couldn’t let it go. It was information that could possibly prove Bruce Wayne Decker’s innocence. The only problem was I didn’t know what to do with it. Mason Deveraux wouldn’t listen. Loading boxes and packing tape into my cart, I realized there was one other person I could talk to. I just wasn’t sure how receptive he’d be. But I’d already made a fool of myself all over town. What was one more place?
It was time to talk to the accused himself. I needed to talk to Bruce Wayne Decker.
Chapter Twenty-One
Getting in to see Bruce Wayne Decker turned out to be harder than I thought. I found the number for William Yates’s office and told the secretary I had information that might help Bruce Decker’s case. When I told her my name, a long pause resulted before she told me she’d pass my message along.
I took that as legalese for “He’ll call when the next ice age covers Henryetta with a glacier.”
I was gonna have to take matters into my own hands.
Judge McClary usually broke for lunch right around noon and it was already eleven-forty-five when I found a parking space two blocks from the courthouse. I camped on a bench outside the courtroom and waited for Mr. Yates. Five minutes later, the doors opened and the occupants of the courtroom spilled out. As the crowd thinned, Mason Deveraux emerged, talking to his assistant. He had nearly turned the corner when he caught a glimpse of me.
He stopped and leaned over to the man next to him, who nodded and continued down the hall. Mr. Deveraux approached, a grim look on his face.
William Yates still hadn’t come out, and I didn’t want to miss him.
“Rose, is everything all right?”
I stood, clasping my hands in my nervousness. “Yeah, everything is fine.”
“You look upset. What are you doing here?”
“I’m waiting for someone.” I bit my lip.
“I see.” He shifted his weight and glanced down the hall then back at me. “The police drove by your house multiple times last night. They didn’t report anything suspicious. Did you have any trouble?”
“No, everything was fine.” He blocked my view of the courtroom doors and I shifted to the side. “Oh, yeah. I forgot something.” I dug into my purse and pulled out the note. “I found this on my car when I picked it up this morning.”
When he read it, his body stiffened and he looked into my face. “This is a threat, Rose.”
I didn’t have time to be distracted by Mason right now. “What? No. It just says he doesn’t like people messin’ in his business.”
He crossed his arms across his chest. “You can’t be serious. You honestly didn’t think this meant anything?”
William Yates pushed through the double court doors, a frown puckering his cheeks.
“Well, of course it did. It meant he doesn’t like people messin’ in his business, and I don’t intend to. Especially since I know he didn’t kill Mr. Mitchell.”
“Finally. That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say since I met you.”
“A bald guy killed Mr. Mitchell and Skeeter Malcolm definitely isn’t bald.” I pushed past him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to Mr. Yates.”
“Rose!” Mr. Deveraux shouted as I hurried after the defense attorney. “Rose!” He grabbed my arm and pulled me to a halt.
“He’s gettin’ away!”
I squirmed and he gripped both of my arms. “If you will stop and listen to me, I’ll make sure you get a personal meeting with him. That’s what you want, right?”
I huffed in frustration. “Well, yeah…and Bruce Wayne Decker too.”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You have to take this threat seriously. I want to know what you’re planning to do about it.”
I was hot and my headache made me cranky. I jerked my arms free from his grasp. “I don’t know, Mr. Deveraux. There’s nothing to do.”
“Why won’t you go stay with your sister?”
I put my hand on my hip, my temper flaring. “How do you know I have a sister?”
“Your file.”
He stood there so arrogant, discussing my life as though it was merely the contents of a file. But then again, for him it was.
“How dare you!”
His eyes widened and he stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“How dare you? You read about my life, the private things in my life, like the fact I have a sister, or throwin’ in my face that Joe didn’t trust me when he met me. What gives you the right to snoop into my business and toss it around like it means nothing?”
His face reddened. “That is not what I intended, Rose. I was merely trying to find out—”
“Why didn’t you just ask me?”
“What?”
“If you have a question about my personal life, ask me. Stop reading about me in a f
ile. It’s violating!”
Taking a deep breath, he turned to the side and rubbed his chin. After staring at the wall for several moments, he exhaled and dropped his hand to his side. “You’re right. I’ve been very crass about the facts of your personal life. I apologize. But I swear I didn’t mean to violate your privacy. The first time I read your file was when I was convincing Judge McClary to let you out of lockup. I promise you that I did it with the best of intentions.”
I started to protest, but he held up his hand.
“Yes, I know. You think I should have come back to the county jail and asked you, but time was running out. Judge McClary only gave us until five o’clock to convince him to let you go. If we didn’t get the paperwork signed by five then you would have spent the weekend in jail.”
I groaned, now feeling like the most ungrateful person alive.
“And then last night, I was working late in my office when Neely Kate called. So I looked up your file, which was still on my desk. Neely Kate had given me your phone number, but I wanted your address to run by your house.”
I sat down on the bench, suddenly weary. When would I stop jumping to conclusions?
Mason perched beside me, leaning forward with his elbows on his legs. He clasped his hands in front of him. “I had no intention—”
I fought back the tears burning my eyes. “Stop. I shouldn’t have assumed the worst of you. You’ve helped me twice now and what have I done? I’ve been rude and ungrateful. I’m sorry.”
He leaned back, pressing into the wall. “We sure do seem to bring out the worst in each other.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, but it seemed to be the truth. We sat in silence for several seconds before he cleared his throat. “I don’t have enough evidence to charge Skeeter Malcolm with anything at this point, so my hands are tied. But you have to take this threat seriously, Rose. You have to take some type of precautions.”
I wiped a tear from my cheek. “Okay. I will.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Um… Joe’s comin’ down from Little Rock tomorrow night. Maybe I can go back with him on Thursday morning.”
He nodded. “Good. That’s good. What about tonight?”
“I’m supposed to go to a Henryetta Garden Club meeting tonight, so I’ll be out.”
“You shouldn’t stay at your house overnight.”
“What do you think Skeeter’s gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe…something.”
“Do you think he’s capable of murderin’ someone?”
He turned his head so that his gaze held mine. “Yes. I do.”
“Oh.”
“Now you see my concern?”
“Yeah.” I looked down at my lap. “Do you think he’s killed people who owe him money?” I didn’t think Skeeter had done it, but it didn’t hurt to ask since he seemed to be leveling with me.
He released an exasperated sigh. “Rose,” he growled. “Let it go.”
“It’s a yes or no question. If you answer, I’ll spend the night at my sister’s.”
He stood and I was sure he wasn’t going to respond. He tugged at his tie. “You promise me that you won’t spend the night at your house?”
I made an X over my chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
His face paled. “Wrong choice of idioms at the moment.” He shifted his weight and his eyes hardened. “I’m scared to give you my honest opinion. I’m worried what you’ll do with the information.”
“I promise not to tell anyone.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He paused. “You seem so headstrong about proving Bruce Wayne Decker innocent. I hate to throw fuel onto your burning fire for justice.”
“So the answer is yes?”
“Yes.” He looked sorry that he admitted it the moment the word left his mouth. “Stay away from Malcolm. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“I want your word, Rose.”
“I promise. And thank you.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to eat humble pie.”
“What does that mean?”
One side of his mouth lifted into a wry grin. “I made you a promise, Ms. Gardner. I told you that I’d get you a meeting with William Yates, although I can’t guarantee his client will be present. I’m Mr. Yates’s least favorite person in the world so this is going to take some doing. But I’m a man of my word.”
It was funny how my opinion of him had changed in only a few days. “I believe that you are, Mr. Deveraux. Thank you.”
“Stick around the courthouse. I’m sure this meeting will occur during the lunch break. I’ll call you when I know something.”
He disappeared around the corner and I collapsed on the bench. Never in a million years would I have believed Mason Deveraux would help me. Even if it was obviously against his better judgment.
I had to admit I was surprised that Mason was so concerned that Skeeter would try to hurt me. Sure, I’d asked some questions, but the more I thought about it, I wasn’t any type of threat. Skeeter was just trying to scare me with the note. Especially if Skeeter hadn’t murdered Frank Mitchell. I didn’t even know if Skeeter was Mr. Mitchell’s bookie, although I suspected he was. But my instinct told me the bald guy hanging around the hardware store was the real murderer, and it was obvious he wasn’t Skeeter. Why had the bald guy come back?
Ten minutes later my phone rang and caller ID showed Mason Deveraux’s number. “He’ll meet you at twelve-forty-five in room 216. Don’t be late.”
“Thank you.”
“This wasn’t easy to arrange so I hope you get what you need out of it.”
“Thanks.”
At 12:44, I stood outside of room 216. I half-expected Mason Deveraux to show up and escort me in, but was thankful for his absence. What I wasn’t prepared for was the sheriff’s deputy stationed outside the door. What did Mr. Yates think I was capable of doing?
I reached up to knock, but the deputy pushed the door open.
Sitting at the table was William Yates. And next to him sat Bruce Wayne Decker.
Once I crossed the threshold, the door closed behind me.
Mr. Yates’s left hand tapped the table with an ink pen. “I hope this isn’t a waste of our time, Ms. Gardner.”
“I’ll try my best to make sure it’s not.”
“Have a seat.” He motioned to the chair across from him, then scribbled a note on the legal pad.
Pulling out my seat, I couldn’t help staring at Bruce. He seemed smaller close up. More fragile, which struck me as ridiculous. Joe was right. Bruce was a criminal. Yet there was a difference between Bruce and Daniel Crocker, and Skeeter Malcolm. Crocker and Malcolm were hardened men who thought nothing of disposing of people in their way. I could see it in their eyes. But Bruce was soft and made me think of a dried-up autumn leaf, tossed around in the wind and easily crushed.
“Do you plan to stare at my client all day, Ms. Gardner, or do you actually have something to share with us?”
“Oh, sorry.” I slid onto the chair and placed my hands on the table. I had no idea where to start. Maybe I should have spent more time going over my speech and less time obsessing over my personal life. I looked into Bruce’s face. “First of all, I know you are innocent.”
Relief filled his eyes, but Mr. Yates snapped me back to reality. “And exactly how do you know this?”
“Um… I overheard the real killer in the bathroom.”
Mr. Yates tensed then rolled his eyes. “And what did he say? What did he look like? How did you hear this in the bathroom? Did you see Jesus in your toast this morning too?”
I pursed my lips in disapproval. “There’s no need to be snippy, Mr. Yates. In case you hadn’t noticed, I went to jail tryin’ to get evidence to prove Mr. Decker is innocent.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing. In today’s media hungry, five-minutes-worth-of-fame craze, people do stupid things to get attention. Who’s to say you didn’t get used t
o the attention with your own mother’s murder? Maybe you miss the spotlight, so now you’re trying to recapture it with this cockamamie story.”
I squinted in disbelief. “Is that really what you think I’m doin’? Tryin’ to get my five minutes of fame?”
Mr. Yates pushed back his chair, the legs screeching across the floor. “I’ve heard enough. I’ve done my end of the bargain. We’re done here.”
Bruce looked down at his hands, which were folded neatly on the table. “No.”
Mr. Yates’s eyebrows rose. “What?”
Bruce looked up and held my gaze. “No. I want to hear what she has to say.”
Shaking his head, Mr. Yates patted Bruce’s arm. “I understand your desperation—”
I cleared my throat. “Why didn’t you point out that Bruce is right-handed?”
“What in tarnation does that have to do with anything?”
“Mr. Mitchell’s head wound was on the right side.”
“So what?”
“The murderer is left-handed.”
He paused, staring at me with a hard look. The overhead lights reflected off the top of his nearly bald head. “And how do you know this?”
I couldn’t tell him about my vision “I just do.”
“You just do.” Disgust drenched his words and he resumed tapping the table with his pen in a steady beat. “My client is curious, so indulge us with what else you just know.”
“I know the pin belonged to the murderer and he’s worried it will be tied back to him. But he thinks he’s goin’ to get away with it.”
Bruce’s mouth hung open as he took in my words. Mr. Yates looked bored.
“Before Frank Mitchell’s death, someone had been trying to buy his house, but Mr. Mitchell refused to sell. Whoever wanted it was pushing Frank hard. Hard enough to make him so upset that he got drunk and stumbled around in his backyard a few days before he was murdered. Then a couple of months after he died, his son sold the house to an investment company in Louisiana. But it recently sold again to a corporation that is putting in a superstore. They bought his house to make a parking lot. I also know that Frank owed a bookie a lot of money. But I don’t think the bookie killed him.”
RG2 - Twenty-Nine and a Half Reasons Page 22
