“Well, why not?” Rob said when I pointed this out. “After all, why would anybody want to go to Clay County at the best of times?”
“Someone could want to go through Clay County,” I suggested. “To Tappahannock, maybe?”
“Then they’d be out of luck when they hit the county line,” Rob said. “I don’t think Clay County has working snowplows anymore. They figure anyone who can’t be bothered to buy a truck with four-wheel drive can just wait till it thaws.”
He had a point. But here in Caerphilly, even the final stretch of dirt road was pretty clear—obviously the Shiffley clan, who had the plowing contract, took good care of their aunt Jane. Or maybe they’d gotten into the habit of plowing her road this way a few years ago when the county had temporarily lost possession of its town hall and Jane’s barn was the only courthouse available—just as she was the only judge not either in jail or under indictment.
I could recall summer days when court was in session in her barn and the entire dirt road would be lined with cars. You could see lawyers and their clients pacing up and down in the pastures, since that was the only way to have a private conversation, given the absence of conference rooms. People waiting for their cases to be called would often picnic by the side of the road, and a couple of deputies would patrol the area, making sure defendants and the witnesses against them weren’t thrown too close together. Some of the local churches and civic organizations set up stands to sell lemonade and sodas, while the children took turns riding the several gentle old horses Judge Jane kept around for her own grandchildren.
Even though the town had reclaimed its courthouse, the judge still often preferred to hear cases in her barn, and most of the time, nobody much minded.
Things were slow today, no doubt in part because of the weather. Only a few cars and trucks were parked in her farmyard, mostly patrol cars and the chief’s blue sedan.
I saw two figures, both heavily bundled, pacing up and down in the snow nearby. One I recognized as a local attorney who specialized in representing drunk drivers. He appeared to be lecturing the other figure, and I noticed a deputy standing just outside the barn door, watching them. This time of year, the lack of conference rooms made for some pretty brisk attorney-client meetings.
Rob nodded to the deputy and hurried inside. I stopped to say hello—it was Vern Shiffley.
“She in a good mood?” I asked, nodding toward the barn.
“With one of her own family arrested for something like this?” Vern shook his head. “Man, will I be glad to get out of here.”
I braced myself and stepped inside.
The interior of the barn was warm, and humid from the breath of all the two-and four-legged creatures within. I inhaled the rich farm odor, a composite of hay, feed grain, and manure.
This end of the barn was a wide corridor flanked by stalls and boxes. Several of Judge Jane’s Morgan horses or prize Guernsey cows peered over the stall doors as if interested in the proceedings going on at the far end. I started slightly when I heard a duck quack almost underfoot, but it turned out to be a large buff-colored duck—presumably one of the Saxony ducks I’d heard Judge Jane raised, rather than yet another refugee from St. Byblig’s.
Judge Jane was sitting in state on the judge’s bench, which was formed by putting an antique captain’s chair on the bed of an old farm wagon. The chair was pulled up close to the raised driver’s seat, so the judge would have a place to stow any documents she needed close at hand—and more importantly, so she’d have a good solid surface on which to pound her gavel, which she tended to do a lot when presiding.
A dozen or so of the judge’s black-and-brown hound dogs lay sleeping in piles of hay, either in the bed of the wagon or on the barn floor, as close as they could get to the judge’s feet. The dogs weren’t fond of loud voices, overlarge gestures, or anything they suspected was a threat toward their mistress. Their menacing stares and occasional low growls usually kept most defendants and attorneys from getting anywhere near a contempt of court citation. Judge Jane called the dogs her assistant bailiffs.
Rob was already sprawled on one of the hay bales that served as seating, talking quietly to Caleb Shiffley and Ronnie Butler, and absently petting a couple of the hounds. Nearby, I recognized Ronnie’s and Caleb’s parents, huddled on several other hay bales, looking anxious. I tried to imagine what I’d feel if I were in their place—if Josh or Jamie had committed what he thought was a harmless prank only to have everything go so completely wrong.
Judge Jane was reading a document with a fierce scowl on her face, Chief Burke and several of his deputies were waiting nearby.
Chief Burke looked up and saw me. He pursed his lips and shook his head with a sad expression on his face.
Did that mean that he was sorry, but he didn’t believe the conversation I’d repeated to him, the one that seemed to clear Caleb and Ronnie of everything but the first two pranks? Or that he did believe it and was telling me to shut up because this was all part of a plan—perhaps a plan to scare the boys straight, or smoke out the person who’d really committed the last few pranks, or maybe both?
I strolled over and sat on the other end of the chief’s hay bale.
“Do you have any idea how much longer you’ll be keeping Trinity closed off as a crime scene?” I asked. “Not that we’re trying to hurry you or Horace or anybody, because we completely understand that you need to process all the evidence to catch whoever killed Mr. Vess, and we can work around whatever timeframe you give us—”
“But you have a whole bunch of Christmas events coming up and it would be nice to know if you can hold any of them in your church,” he said. “I understand.”
“It’s the sanctuary we need the most,” I said. “We could live without the undercroft if need be.”
“The what?”
“Sorry,” I said. “The basement. Mother and the rector and a lot of the gung ho parishioners seem to prefer the medieval term ‘undercroft.’”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Getting back to opening up the church—I discussed that very issue with Horace not half an hour ago. He’s working to finish up in the main floor within a couple of hours. We’ll probably keep the basement—er, undercroft—a little longer, till tomorrow, at least.”
“That helps. Thanks.”
He seemed to be preoccupied, so I retreated to a bale farther back and tapped out a quick text message to Robyn. I had just finished sending it when Judge Jane rapped her gavel nine or ten times on the wagon seat. All the dogs woke up—a few of the younger ones scrambled to their feet—and they stared out at the rest of the courtroom as if daring us to get up to something.
“All stand,” the bailiff bellowed, and we all bolted to our feet—even the remaining dogs—and stayed there while he continued with his rapid fire chant. “Oyez, oyez, oyez! This honorable court is now open and sitting for the dispatch of its business. God save the state of Virginia and this honorable court. Judge Jane Shiffley presiding. You may be seated.”
The dogs kept a keen eye on the rest of us until we’d all seated ourselves on the hay bales. Then they began the traditional canine ritual of turning around three times and settling down again in the hay. The judge waited until the prolonged rustling had stopped before continuing.
“Let’s pick up where we left off,” she said. “Are the defendants now represented by counsel?”
“They are, your honor,” Rob said. “Robert James Langslow, attorney-at-law, appearing for Caleb Shiffley and Ronald Butler.”
Rob was wearing what we called his Lancelot expression—the male equivalent of Mother’s Joan of Arc look. Judge Jane regarded him dyspeptically.
“You represented many clients on potential death-penalty cases?” she said at last.
One of the defendants uttered a small squeak. I couldn’t tell which one.
The county prosecutor stepped forward. She was dressed in jeans and a red-and-white Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer sweater rather than her usual elegant pinstriped suit, b
ut somehow it didn’t make her less imposing.
“The district attorney’s office is not asking for the death penalty, your honor. In fact, at present, we’re not filing any changes related to the death of Mr. Barliman Vess.”
“But you could be eventually,” the judge said. “What if in the course of his investigation the chief finds out these two little hooligans had it in for poor Mr. Vess? And you two decide the whole thing was not the unfortunate accidental consequence of a stupid prank but a deliberate, premeditated murder?”
More squeaking from at least one of the defendants.
“Your honor,” Rob said. “I’m only representing the defendants for the purposes of arraignment and, dare I hope, bail. They will be represented by experienced defense attorneys as soon as possible. Seems as if every other lawyer in the county is off spending the holiday in a warmer climate.”
“And every other judge,” Judge Jane growled. “Or I wouldn’t be hearing this.” She glared at Rob for a while. He stood, wearing the sort of innocent, trustworthy look he used to put on as a teenager when he was trying, against all odds, to talk Dad into letting him drive the car. His two clients looked anxiously from him to the judge and back again.
“Let’s get this over with, then,” Judge Jane said, with a few whacks from the gavel to underline her point.
In a matter of minutes, Ronnie and Caleb were arraigned on charges of trespassing, vandalism, statutory burglary, assault and battery, grand and petty larceny, arson, cruelty to animals, and illegal possession of a wild animal. And denied bail.
“But your honor!” Rob protested.
“I’m going to have to recuse myself from this case, so in the morning you—or your replacement—can ask my replacement to reconsider bail. It’ll probably be Judge Brodie, and he’ll probably give it to them, but I’m not going to have it said that those young rapscallions had it easy because one of them was my kin. So—bail denied.”
“Has your honor considered the effect on the community?” Rob went on. I had to admit, I was pleasantly surprised that he had the nerve to stand up to her.
Judge Jane looked surprised, too, though not necessarily pleasantly.
“To have these two boys torn from the arms of their loving and very large families this close to Christmas!” Rob went on. “A holiday that’s all about family, not to mention peace on earth and good will to all people. A holiday—”
“Chief,” Judge Jane snapped. “You got any of those electronic bracelets you can put on these two? The kind that will raise holy hell if either of them sticks his nose outside his parents’ door?”
“We do, your honor,” Chief Burke said. “The ones we have are actually anklets. We can program them to notify us the second they leave their houses.”
“Make it so,” the judge said. “Caleb Shiffley!”
“Ma’am?” Caleb jumped up, as if someone had run an electric charge through his hay bale, and stood bolt upright before the judge.
“Ronald Butler?”
“Your honor?” Ronnie yelped, following Caleb’s example.
“I’m releasing you two into your parents’ custody,” the judge said.
I heard sighs of relief from the hay bales where the parents were sitting.
“You’re under house arrest,” the judge went on. “I don’t want either one of you to set foot outside your parents’ houses without Chief Burke’s permission. And I want you both to do some long, hard thinking tonight. Do I make myself clear?”
The two murmured assent.
“Chief, fit them out with the anklets and then release them to their parents’ custody. Anything else?” Judge Jane looked around as if daring anyone to speak up.
“There’s that DUI,” the bailiff began.
“Tell that son of a gun he’s getting a continuance until after Christmas, and he should be glad of it,” she said. “Way I feel now … Anything else?”
No one else spoke up.
“Court adjourned,” she said, with a single powerful thud of the gavel.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez,” the bailiff began chanting.
“Meg Langslow!” Judge Jane snapped.
Chapter 27
When Judge Jane barked out my name, I didn’t react quite as badly as Caleb and Ronnie, but I couldn’t help looking startled.
“Your honor?”
The judge was climbing down off the bench, with the help of a nearby deputy. The dogs all rose, and the ones who had been reclining in the wagon bed poured over the side to join the others in a happily milling pack around her feet.
“I need a drink. And I don’t believe in drinking alone. Your brother can ride back to town with his clients. Come have an eggnog.”
With that she strode toward the exit.
Not the most gracious invitation I’d ever received, but I fell in at the tail end of the pack. Once we got outside the barn she waited for me and we walked side by side up to the farmhouse.
The front door opened into the great room, as she called it; a huge combination kitchen, dining room, and family room with a roaring fire in the oversized hearth. I sat down on a chair near the fire—a battered-looking armchair that probably only looked tweed because of the dog hair, but proved to be utterly comfortable.
The judge hadn’t gone overboard on decorating. A wreath on the door, and a big spruce Christmas tree in the corner covered with multicolored ornaments, most of them old-fashioned and a little chipped or tarnished. Mother would have described them as vintage and enthused over their patina. I just found it homey and comfortable.
But where she beat all Mother’s efforts was in the smell department. The whole house teemed with authentic Christmassy scents—the sharp evergreen odors of the tree and the wreath and the mouthwatering scents of gingerbread and cinnamon-spiced cider.
“What the hell is going on here, anyway?” Judge Jane asked. “Let me hang your coat up, and then I’ll get the eggnog. Did those two boys actually kill that poor old man?”
“I don’t think so.” I leaned back and put my feet up on a well-worn footstool. “But why ask me?”
“Because I can’t ask any of them.” She was standing at the stove, and gestured over her shoulder in the general direction of the barn. The smell of warming eggnog joined the other holiday scents. “It would be completely irregular. Ex parte communication. Hell, I couldn’t ask you if I hadn’t just recused myself. But I’m off the case now, and you’re a civilian. Does Henry Burke really think they did it?”
“He knows they did the first two pranks,” I said. “The skunks and the snake. He has a witness who overheard them discussing it.”
“A reliable witness?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you consider me reliable?”
She sighed. Then she handed me a glass of eggnog and sat down on another dog-tweed armchair with her own glass in hand.
“Tell me what you heard. Please,” she added, as if remembering that she wasn’t wearing her judge’s robes at the moment.
I gave her the gist of what I’d overheard last night, in between sips of her delicious and highly potent eggnog.
“Interesting,” she said when I’d finished. “Of course, it doesn’t rule out the possibility that one of them was lying to his friend.”
“Agreed,” I said. “But I don’t think either of them is that good a liar. That phrase Ronnie used—‘I know you’re still mad about the April thing’—do you have any idea what happened in April to upset them?”
She frowned and shook her head.
“No idea,” she said. “Must have been something pretty bad if they’re still upset about it eight months later.”
“Or maybe it’s something that they’re trying to prevent happening this coming April,” I suggested.
She continued to frown and shake her head. Then her face cleared.
“Of course,” she said, with a chuckle.
“You know what the April thing is?” I asked.
“It’s not a what,” she said. “It’s a who. April
Hardaway. Her father owns the John Deere dealership in town. Caleb has been sweet on her for a year or two. Cute little redhead. No idea what she has to do with the pranks, though.”
“I think I might know,” I said. “Does she sing in the New Life Baptist choir?”
“She does,” the judge said. “I confess, I was surprised and a little disappointed that the choir director didn’t pick her for a solo.”
“He didn’t pick Kayla Butler either,” I said. “Ronnie’s cousin.”
“You think those two rascals pulled the whole skunk stunt because Lightfoot didn’t pick Ronnie’s cousin or Caleb’s little sweetheart?”
I nodded.
“Then why the ducks?”
“You’re asking why a duck?” I said, in my best Chico Marx accent. “Why not a chicken?”
Judge Jane frowned. Evidently she wasn’t a Marx Brothers fan.
“There is no ‘why the ducks,’” I said, in my normal voice. “Not with Ronnie and Caleb. Because they didn’t do the ducks. Someone else did. And if we knew why, maybe we’d know who.”
“Cui bono,” she said. “Which is Latin for ‘follow the money.’”
“Technically, Latin for ‘who benefits?’” I said. “And I’m not sure anyone benefits financially from the pranks.”
“Same thing.” The judge sipped her eggnog slowly. “Mark my words, somewhere down the line, someone will.”
A thought came to me and I turned it over in my mind, sipping my eggnog, until I decided that it was something I could safely bring up with the judge.
“It’s not just the fact that Caleb is your nephew, is it?” I asked. “There’s been bad blood before between Barliman Vess and some of the Shiffleys, right?”
“There has,” she said. “Quincy Shiffley is damned lucky he was in the Caerphilly Hospital hooked up to a bunch of machines last night. Otherwise he’d be Henry Burke’s prime suspect. He’s a known hothead, and he and Vess had exchanged high words more than once.”
Duck the Halls Page 16
