Heart vs. Humbug

by MJ Rodgers

  “Why, because a doctor showed you an X ray of it?”

  He had to smile at how sweetly she had managed to say that. “No, because I admit that I come with the standard set of emotions, just like everyone else. But I don’t believe they can be relied on to live one’s life.”

  “Have you ever tried?”

  “Yes.”

  “Another surprise. First mountain climbing and now a confession that you’ve actually let your emotions be your guide. I must know, when was this?”

  “When I was young and foolish and fell in love.”

  “Who was she?”

  “A dangerous fantasy, all sparkle and glitter and nothing more. We’re here,” he said as he parked the car in front of the community center.

  “Something’s wrong,” Octavia said, quickly exiting the passenger side, not waiting for Brett to open the door for her this time.

  Brett understood her haste the moment he caught sight of John, racing toward them from the community center. Everything about the quickness of his stride and the look on his face told Brett that whatever news he brought, it wasn’t going to be good.

  John’s words were breathy from his exertion.

  “They took Mab, Octavia. Just now. I’ve been looking for your number to call you, but I couldn’t find it.”

  “Took Mab? Who took Mab?” Octavia asked, surprising Brett as always with her clear, calm voice in a crisis.

  “The police. They had a warrant. She’s been arrested.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Save your breath, Ms. Osborne,” Sergeant Patterson said as Octavia and Brett faced him at the station. “We have her cold. We don’t even need to wait for Seattle to get back to us now on the forensics. A witness has come forward.”

  Octavia knew she couldn’t have heard right. “A witness?”

  “Ronald Scroogen saw Mab Osborne sneaking up behind his father, pushing him to the ground, striking him on the shoulder and then throwing the cultivator and gloves into the open trash bin before running away.”

  “I find that very hard to believe, Sergeant,” Brett said.

  “I find it impossible to believe,” Octavia added. “If Scroogen’s son saw the whole thing, why didn’t he come to his father’s aid?”

  “When Ronald reached the parking lot, he suddenly remembered he was supposed to meet an employee on the other side of town. He was exiting the parking lot when he saw the attack. By the time he turned the car around again, Mab had run off and his father was back on his feet. Ronald decided his father could take care of it, so he drove off to his meeting.”

  “Why didn’t Ronald tell you this before?”

  “Because when he got back to the office after checking on the job, the medics told him his father had just died. Needless to say, the young man had that other matter on his mind.”

  “I still can’t believe he—”

  “Ms. Osborne, we have your grandmother on assault. They’re booking her now.”

  Octavia didn’t phrase her words into a question. She made them a statement. “You’re not putting her in jail.”

  “We’re not monsters, Ms. Osborne,” Patterson said, “just the police trying to do our jobs. And, no, we’re not putting a seventy-six-year-old woman in jail. We’ll be fitting her with an electronic monitor and restricting her to her home. You can wait and drive her if you like.”

  “Her home sustained structural damage, remember? It’s not fit for her to return to.”

  “What do you suggest, Ms. Osborne?”

  “She’s staying with a friend, Constance Kope. Let her continue to stay there.”

  “All right.”

  “When is the arraignment?”

  “Nine tomorrow morning. Judge Kuppsen’s courtroom. You should have taken my deal, Ms. Osborne,” Patterson said as he turned away. “Now it’s too late.”

  * * *

  “MY CLIENT PLEADS not guilty, Your Honor,” Octavia said the next morning in the courtroom of Judge Roberta Kuppsen, a trim, fortyish brunette with a short cap of hair and an alert look.

  Deputy prosecutor Edwin Glapp slowly rose to his feet. He was a thin, dark man whose droopy eyes on his youngish face made him look like he had just come out of a really sad movie.

  “Your Honor, the people ask for five-thousand bail.”

  “Your Honor,” Octavia began, “Mab Osborne has lived in Bremerton all her life. She is a co-owner of the local senior’s radio station and is on the executive committee of their Silver Power League. With such substantial ties to the community, she is hardly a flight risk. She should be released on her own recognizance.”

  “I see no need for the formality of bail in this situation,” Judge Kuppsen said. “The defendant will be released on her own recognizance. Preliminary hearing is set for December 22, ten o’clock. Next case.”

  “So, that’s it?” Mab asked as she turned to Octavia.

  “Yes. We’ll be back in court on the twenty-second.”

  “That’s the day I’m helping to cook and coordinate the Christmas meals for the nonambulatory seniors. Then there’s seeing to the repairs to the community center. I can’t waste time here, answering these foolish charges.”

  “Mab, this isn’t an optional appearance,” Brett reminded her as he stood beside her on the other side of the defense table.

  Octavia rested her hand on Mab’s shoulder. “We’re going to do our best to try to clear this up quickly, Mab. As soon as they take that electronic monitoring device off your leg, we’ll take you over to the community center and let you get back to work while we go check out this eyewitness.”

  “Ronald Scroogen is lying,” Mab said, her mouth tight.

  “Or possibly mistaken. What Brett and I have to find out is whether he made this up for some reason or he honestly mistook you for someone else.”

  Mab turned to Brett. “Do you believe me? Even over the word of your cousin?”

  Octavia liked the small smile that drew back Brett’s lips as he answered her grandmother. “Yes.”

  Mab rose on her tiptoes to give his cheek a quick kiss.

  Brett’s smile got a little bigger. “You Osborne women certainly have a way with a thank you,” he said, somehow managing to maintain that deep, solemn voice of his.

  Mab grinned first at him and then at Octavia. “I’m really beginning to like this magician of yours.”

  “Me, too,” Octavia said. “Let’s get that electronic monitor off you. It’s definitely not your style of ankle jewelry.”

  * * *

  “I SAW WHAT I SAW,” Ronald said defiantly, clearly upset with being challenged by Brett.

  Brett leaned forward in his chair in the living room of the Scroogen home and looked Ronald straight in the eye. The young man tried to maintain his ramrod-straight poise, despite the soft undulating folds of the comfortable couch on which he perched.

  “I read the statement you gave Sergeant Patterson, Ronald. I went to your father’s office building and studied the area in which the assault took place. I even drove my car in and out of the parking lot trying to mimic the movements you described.”

  “So?”

  “So, from my attempt to re-create the scenario you described, I think it would have been exceptionally difficult for you to have even seen the attack on your father. And once the police try to imitate your movements as I did, they most certainly will begin to doubt your story, also.”

  Ronald said nothing, just sat there glaring at Brett and trying to maintain his stiff posture.

  “Giving false testimony to the police is a prosecutable offense,” Brett warned.

  Nancy sat forward, clearly alarmed. “If Ronald was simply mistaken, surely they wouldn’t prosecute him for that?”

  “Nancy, Ronald told the police he saw Mab Osborne attack Dole. He made a positive eyewitness identification. It was based on his identification and statement that Mab was arrested. If he is mistaken, they will go a lot easier on him if he comes forward now and admits to his mistake.”


  “I didn’t make a mistake,” Ronald said. “She did it. And she’s going to pay for it. It’s what my father would have insisted on if he hadn’t died.”

  “I know your father assumed it was Mab who struck him,” Octavia said in her rich, even voice from the other side of the room. “But even he wasn’t sure. Remember he told his secretary that he didn’t see his attacker?”

  “I did,” Ronald insisted stubbornly.

  Brett had tried reasoning. It was time to try another approach. He rose and stood in front of the couch where Ronald and Nancy sat. He spread his legs and crossed his arms over his chest. He let his voice boom over them.

  “How far away were you from the site of the assault?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Estimate.”

  “Fifty feet.”

  “I measured the distance. The closest you could have been was two hundred feet. How long did the attack take?”

  “The whole thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think half a minute.”

  “You think or you’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Were you watching the attack in your rearview mirror or your side mirror?”

  “Neither. I was turned and looking out the back window.”

  “While driving forward you were looking out the back window for half a minute?”

  Ronald’s hands moved from his sides to circle his knees. “Well, no. I mean not the whole time.”

  “So you did turn your eyes forward some of the time?”

  “Of course. Otherwise I would have crashed into something.”

  “If you looked away, you didn’t see everything, did you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Even while you were focused ahead concentrating on not hitting anything, you saw everything that happened behind you?”

  Ronald clasped his knees more tightly. “You’re trying to confuse me.”

  “Your answers are doing that, Ronald. What was your father wearing?”

  “A suit, I guess. He always wore a suit with suspenders.”

  “So you don’t know, you’re just guessing?”

  “I’m not guessing. It was a suit. With suspenders.”

  “Was his jacket on or off?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What was Mab Osborne wearing?”

  “I don’t remember. Who do you think you are, questioning me like this?”

  “Whether you believe it or not, I’m trying to be your friend. When you take the stand in court, it will be Octavia who will cross-examine you. She will ask a thousand questions, much harder than those I’ve just asked you. She will pin you down in a thousand different ways. And after she’s finished, the jury will see quite clearly that in your grief over your father’s death, in your desperate need to avenge an attack made on him in his final hours, you have perjured yourself.”

  Brett looked at Nancy. He changed the harsh note in his voice to one of gentle concern.

  “Perhaps the saddest part about this misguided attempt to avenge his father is that Dole’s real attacker might never be brought to justice, and it will be Ronald who goes to jail.”

  Brett once again let his eyes focus on Ronald’s face. His tone remained gentle this time.

  “Do you think your father would have wanted that, Ronald? What good will you be to Nancy and Katlyn behind bars? How will you take care of them from there?”

  Ronald’s hands were gripping his knees so hard now, his knuckles were white.

  Brett turned away from him and nodded to Octavia that it was time to leave. She rose immediately and came to his side, a definite light of approval in her eyes.

  Nancy also quickly rose, but the look in her dark eyes was troubled. She walked them to the door. Before Brett could exit, she laid a hand on his arm.

  “I’ll talk to him, Brett. He’s just trying to do what he thinks Dole would have wanted him to.”

  She turned hesitantly to Octavia. “He doesn’t mean to falsely accuse your grandmother, Ms. Osborne. He believes she really did it.”

  “I can see that, Mrs. Scroogen,” Octavia said, extending her hand as well as her voice. “In his eagerness to see his father avenged, he’s just gotten carried away.”

  Nancy took Octavia’s offered hand, a grateful look on her face. “Thank you for understanding, Ms. Osborne.”

  Nancy turned back to Brett. “You’ve learned nothing about how Dole died?”

  “It’s up to the toxicologist in Seattle now. They’ll send word as soon as they have anything, Nancy. I’m keeping in close touch with Sergeant Patterson. I realize it’s difficult waiting. I’ll let you know the moment I know.”

  Nancy nodded mutely as she let them out and closed the door behind them.

  They were halfway to Brett’s car when Octavia asked the same question foremost in Brett’s mind.

  “Do you think your aunt will be able to convince Ronald to recant his statement to the police?”

  “I hope so, for his sake, as well as Mab’s.”

  “You handled the situation well, Brett. You alternated between stern and understanding like a vocalist with perfect pitch. Needless to say, I am inordinately pleased we are on the same side in this matter.”

  Brett remembered his father often saying that the only reward a man needed was knowing inside himself that he had done his best. He had found that his father spoke the truth. Brett felt that success inside himself. The money that had followed meant little. The fame even less. Whether others acknowledged his success had not mattered at all.

  Which was why he didn’t know why it felt so good—so very good—that she acknowledged it.

  “So, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted by this turn of affairs?” she asked as he opened the car door for her.

  “We were on our way to see John and talk to him about his possible involvement in the attack. Hopefully, this sidetrack has been taken care of, and we can get on with our investigation and find out who really attacked Scroogen.”

  * * *

  “JOHN’S NOT HERE,” Mab informed them as she greeted them at the entrance to the center. Inside, Octavia could see the seniors in their old sweats, wearing rubber gloves and surgical masks, many down on hands and knees scrubbing with disinfectant. The masks made sense. Even with all the windows open, the disinfectant odor was quite pervasive.

  “Where is he?” Octavia asked.

  “His son, Lloyd, called to ask him to drop by. Lloyd is an ophthalmologist just as John was before he retired. Every so often, John consults with him on a case. You can see John at Lloyd’s East Bremerton office if you like. I have his card here in my purse.”

  Mab moved her apronlike wrap to dig inside her fanny pouch purse. She pulled out the card and handed it to Octavia.

  “It’s not far from here. Probably only take you ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “We’ll see him there, thanks.”

  “Why do you want to talk to John?” Mab asked.

  “Just want to get his views on things. I know you’re busy so we won’t keep you from your work.”

  Octavia took Brett’s arm and left quickly before Mab asked any more questions. She knew her grandmother would not be pleased to learn she and Brett were about to interrogate John about his possible involvement in the attack on Scroogen.

  They arrived at the offices of John Lloyd Winslow, Ophthalmologist, exactly twelve minutes later. Octavia was just about to approach the receptionist sitting behind a large plastic nativity scene, when John came walking out of the inner offices. A look of surprise stole over his face.

  “Octavia, Mr. Merlin, what are you two doing here?”

  “We came to see you,” Octavia said. “Is there some place we can talk?”

  “There’s a vacant examining room right back here. I’m sure Lloyd won’t mind our using it. This way.”

  John led them down the hall and saw them inside before shutting the door and gesturing them to two side chairs. He remained stan
ding in front of the door, underneath a red banner with white sequins that flashed Season’s Greetings.

  “Mab told me you’re trying to help,” he said to Brett.

  Brett acknowledged John’s comment with a nod.

  “So, something you wanted to ask, Octavia?”

  “We’re trying to understand just how much animosity existed among the seniors collectively and individually toward Scroogen.”

  “A lot existed, both collectively and individually,” John said. “I know it isn’t proper to speak ill of the dead, but the man had absolutely no concern for anyone but himself. I’m sorry to have to say this to you, Mr. Merlin.”

  “No need to be sorry,” Brett said. “We want your honest views.”

  “John, have you ever let the key to the storeroom door at the back of the greenhouse out of your sight?” Octavia asked.

  John pulled his key chain out of his suit slacks. He pointed to the distinctive silver-plated key. “It’s with me always.”

  “Was there anyone among the seniors who hated Scroogen enough to wish him harm?” Octavia asked.

  John repocketed his keys. “You mean besides me?”

  Octavia leaned forward in her chair. “You felt that strongly that you wished him harm?”

  “Let’s just say that occasional visions of him being hit by a truck did not cause me distress.”

  “John, where were you when Scroogen was attacked?”

  “You think I might have done it?” John said, a mild surprise clearly peppering his tone.

  “In view of your deep animosity toward the man, I thought that perhaps—”

  “I was at the community center with Constance and Douglas when the Scrooge was attacked, Octavia. Still, it came as no surprise. The unscrupulous way he tried to force us out was only one of his nasty faults—and not even his worst one at that.”

  “What do you mean, John?”

  John looked from Octavia to Brett and back again. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it.”

  “I can’t forget it, John. You did say something.”

  “I can’t tell you, Octavia. Doctor-patient privilege.”

  “You were Dole Scroogen’s eye doctor?” Octavia asked.

  “No, nothing like that.”