by Ellen Parker
“Off. Sit.”
Bailiff obeyed and stared at his master as if asking why.
“Were you holding food?” Jackson directed the question to Sylvia.
She examined both sides of a perfectly manicured hand. “I ate a cookie in the car. Chocolate chip. Why?”
“He smelled the crumbs. Like a toddler, he hasn’t developed the manners to ask before licking.” He patted his leg and called Bailiff to him. Rubbing the dog, he realized leaving his own hands dirty was not the wise choice.
“He’s cute. But sneaky.”
Looked in a mirror this week? “Forget the dog for a moment. Is the apology the only reason you’re here?”
“I thought we might get together. You know, pay up on that dinner you owe.”
He sighed. “Our debts were cancelled. All of them. A long time ago.”
“But we can still be friends.” She moved to stand toe-to-toe with him and tipped her head back to accommodate their eight-inch height difference.
From a distance. The greater, the better. “Acquaintances. With a shared history.”
“Close friends.” She lifted his left hand and brushed a kiss on his skin.
Jackson clenched his right hand into a fist so tight, his short nails dug into the palm. He stepped aside and jerked his fingers away from her. “No. It’s time for you to give up. Concentrate on your web designing. Make new friends. Female as well as male.”
“You’re the friend I want.”
He gazed into her blue eyes, wide open in the fading light, inviting him to come closer. Once, when he was young and inexperienced, they’d pulled him in. He’d almost drowned in there. He shook his head, clearing away the strongest of the memories.
“Didn’t work then. Won’t work now.” Glancing away, he focused on a rafter high above them. “Best you get your apples and leave.”
“This isn’t the end of it, Jackson Dray. You’re mine whether you want to admit it or not.” She pivoted, hesitated, and tossed a few words over her shoulder. “I’ll see you Wednesday. Afternoon. Interview and supper.”
Collecting scraps of self-control from as far away as his toes, he stood still and watched her go. Interview, yes. Supper, not as long as he had a functioning brain cell. He gathered a deep breath when she got in her car. A sigh long enough to make his shoulders slump escaped his lips as she drove away. Sylvia made an irritating friend. But she had the potential to be a dangerous enemy.
“Cheer up, bro.” Linc draped the counter display with a plastic sheet. “She has the attention span of a sparrow.”
“Maybe.” He glanced between Linc and Mona, realizing again how well they fit each other. Each of them was strong in different ways, able to exist alone, yet complementing and reinforcing the positive traits of the other. Living here, watching them interact day after day, showed him how large a hole gaped in his life. “I’ll go bring in the sign.”
The dogs accompanied him down the driveway, making circles and side trips to investigate smells and sounds.
“A man shouldn’t get jealous of his own brother.” He released his thoughts to the non-judgmental canines. “Wrong word. Mona suits Linc, but I’ve got a different-shaped void. Sylvia’s all wrong. Proved that to myself years ago, just can’t get her to accept the facts. What I’d like…”
He reached the sign and unhooked the lower portion with the single word “OPEN.”
How many freckles? He imagined the delight of counting and kissing each one, losing track, and needing to start over. The problem, at least the immediate one, was the fence between them called the lawsuit. After it settled? He smiled, recalling her laugh, her walk, and the hazel eyes full of more sparkle than the pendant she wore.
Chapter Eight
Jackson set a small box of tissues next to the trio of water bottles on the conference room table. Once more he checked the position of the video camera and nodded with satisfaction. The open blinds allowed afternoon sunshine to supplement the overhead fluorescents, making the room as cheerful as possible for a formal statement.
“Mr. Dray,” the receptionist’s voice came over the intercom. “The three-thirty is here.”
“Thank you, Ms. Hoffman. I’ll be out in a moment.”
After setting his folders of notes and photos in front of his chair, Jackson went down the hall to the reception area. Sylvia sat hunched over in one of the stiff chairs, her face tipped toward the large red purse next to her feet.
“Ms. George.”
She lifted her head and gave him a nod of recognition. With a soft sound that could have been either sigh or groan, she reached for the purse. Tired. He didn’t want to say anything, but she looked half sick from fatigue. Unlike the lively woman he’d attempted to reason with at the orchard, today she picked up her things and stood as if every movement was an effort.
“Your office?” She plodded toward him.
“The conference room. Second door on the left.” He shortened his natural stride to stay exactly one step ahead and to the left of her. “Any problems on the drive?”
She shook her head and mumbled. “No.”
“Have a seat at the end of the table.” He gestured to the pale gray chair pulled out and waiting. At the camera, he checked the position and made a small adjustment for her height. He watched her carefully before taking his seat. “Are you well, Ms. George?”
“Call me Sylvia.” Her sigh followed so close it became part of her name.
“You didn’t answer the question.” He studied her clothes to avoid staring at her face. Two, rather than three, undone buttons on her blue blouse made it suitable office attire. The pendant on her necklace glinted when she moved, and a trio of silver and gold bracelets decorated her arm.
She offered a small smile. “A little tired. Didn’t sleep well last night. Too much on my mind.”
“In that case, perhaps you’ll feel better after your statement is complete.” He sneaked a glance at his watch.
“Good afternoon, you must be Ms. George. Wayne White. Don’t go to the trouble to stand.” The senior partner of the firm strode into the room with his hand extended. “Do you have everything you need?”
“I… I’m… fine.” Sylvia dropped her hand almost as soon as it touched the lawyer’s.
Exchanging a nod with Mr. White, Jackson moistened his mouth. “Let me start with a word of explanation. I’ll be asking the majority of the questions. Near the end of the session, Mr. White will address a few additional topics. Unless stated otherwise, all items refer to the evening of August twentieth and the early hours of the next morning. Any questions before we begin?”
“I’m aware of the importance of the date.” She laced her fingers and rested her hands close to the edge of the table.
Jackson started the recording, read a scripted introduction, and removed two documents from his folder. One paper contained the questions for today with room between for quick notes. The other was a transcript of her earlier, informal statement, intended to serve as a quick check on the consistency of her story. “Please state your name, address, and occupation for the record.”
Adjusting her shoulders like a school girl practicing an interview, she complied.
Jackson guided her through the first part of the evening’s events. He used many of the same questions as in the previous interview, with additional ones slipped between. “Where did you spend the late afternoon and early evening of August twentieth?”
“With friends in Minneapolis.”
He made a check mark on the transcript. “Names and address?”
“We were at Jenn’s apartment. I think it’s Hickory Street, the Millstone Apartments.”
“Is that in Minneapolis or St. Paul?”
She shrugged, hesitated, and spoke in a flat voice. “Might be a suburb. The address is in my phone.”
Less organized than usual. “Details matter, Ms. George. Please give us the complete name and address of your friend.”
“If you insist.” She lifted her purse onto the
table as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Then in slow, deliberate movements, she inserted one arm up to the elbow. “Seems like a lot of bother.”
Halfway down his list of prepared questions, Jackson slid a photo in front of Sylvia. “Do you recognize this man?”
She shook her head.
“What about this one?” He pushed an enlargement of the Corner Bar’s bartender’s DMV photo beside the one of his client, Josh Clark.
“No. But he looks friendlier than the first one.”
“Are you sure you don’t recognize either of them? We’re still talking about the night of August twentieth.”
She shrugged. “I suppose they could have been in the bar. But I didn’t pay any attention to them.”
Twenty minutes later, Jackson reached the final question on his list. “Did you make any stops or detours between the gas station and your apartment in Crystal Springs?”
Sylvia uncapped the bottle of water she’d been opening and closing between sips. “Straight home. It was late. I had work in the morning.”
“Ms. George.” Wayne claimed their attention with the first words he’d spoken since the camera was turned on. “Are you taking any medication today?”
She crinkled her eyebrows until they almost touched. “No. Does it matter?”
“Everything matters. Were you taking any medication on August twentieth?”
“I may have.”
“Please explain.”
“Jenn, my friend, has a cat. I’m allergic. I may have taken a pill.” She lowered her shoulders as if not interested in these questions.
“Prescription or over-the-counter?”
She picked at the water bottle label. “Over-the-counter.”
“Let’s talk about your supper at the tavern. What did you drink with your”—he turned back a page in his notes—“cheeseburger?”
“Water.”
“Did anyone buy you a drink? Or a round for the house?”
“No.” She smiled for the first time in over half an hour. “I don’t mix alcohol with driving.”
“Admirable habit.” Wayne nodded as if approving. “Ms. George, are you under a doctor’s care?”
“I’m pretty healthy.”
“Have you ever been, or are you currently, a patient of Dr. John Hanson in Eau Claire?”
Jackson almost reached for her as her normal complexion faded to match the eggshell paint on the walls. Throughout the interview, he’d caught several inconsistencies and lies. But she was practiced enough at the craft of deception that her color and often her expression remained neutral.
“How did you get his name?”
“When did you last meet with him?” When the silence extended past comfortable, Wayne added, “Do you have any current prescriptions from him?”
“Not your business.” She tapped the almost-empty water bottle on the table.
“If this case goes to trial and you’re a witness, the prosecution will make it their business. They will expose every medication, every side effect of such medication, and every diagnosis which will discredit your testimony. They will ask about eyeglasses, contacts, and if you were wearing them at the gas station. If your testimony is that you saw a small, dark pickup truck with the passenger side tail light out at the air pump, you better be able to answer everything they throw at you.”
“But… but… privacy. HIPPA.”
“Subpoena. If there is a witness who saw you take medication or saw it in your possession, the prosecution will find them.”
“Are we done?” She swept her hand through the confetti from the bottle label, scattering it across a quarter of the table. An instant later, she glared at Jackson.
Jackson glanced at Wayne, then at Sylvia. “Yes. Unless you have a question for us.”
“I just want to go home.” She pushed back her chair, dropped her phone into her purse, and stood.
Jackson clicked off the camera. “I’ll walk you out.”
She showed more energy striding toward the reception area than she’d demonstrated in the conference room.
Jackson followed her down the hall. “Are you okay to drive?”
“I can drive just fine.” She walked past the reception desk without a glance in that direction then out the front door.
Jackson stood still in the middle of the public area. Regardless of her confident words about driving, he worried for her safety.
“Message for you.” Ms. Hoffman extended a sheet from her notepad.
“Thanks.” He spoke before he glanced at her clear, tidy printing.
The prosecutor’s office had called. With each word of the note, his confidence sank toward his toes. “Mr. Marsh died at 2:40 p.m. We will be charging your client with second degree unintentional homicide.”
Chapter Nine
Beth poured the last of the breakfast coffee into her mug and paused at the kitchen window. The clouds of early morning had cleared off, signaling a bright, early September Friday. She caught a glimpse of Anita and Carla moving among the organic vegetables, picking produce for the weekly subscribers.
Get moving. It didn’t do any good to remind herself that she’d done the dog chores, cleaned away breakfast dishes, and started supper in the slow cooker. Her accounting tasks were behind. The computer both beckoned and taunted her from its desk in the dining area.
Since Labor Day, she’d been delivering Greta’s puppies to their foster families. She enjoyed visiting with people and touring their homes and yards. No matter how many emails or phone calls had been exchanged, discussing the expectations for pup and humans in person was more informative. Whether this was a first-time or a repeat foster family, last-minute questions always came up on delivery day.
The downside was that with the driving between one and four hours to each foster site, deliveries didn’t leave much time for her accounting clients. All day today. Her plan for the day started with working from home this morning. She had two on-site clients scheduled for the afternoon, including Jack’s Village Tavern. Later in the evening, she and a pair of choir members planned to gather for the Friday fish fry. She looked forward to it as both an excellent break from routine and a reward for staying on task.
The moment she opened the first spreadsheet, her phone rang with the first six notes of the Frank Sinatra classic, “Chicago.” As she reached for it, she grumbled to the empty room, “What do you need now, member of the Morse family?”
“Hello, this is Beth.” She slipped into her professional voice as she touched the talk button.
“I was hoping you’d pick up. I hate to leave messages. It feels as if I always manage to mangle or tangle vital words.”
“Good morning, Gertrude. I take it you got my note.” Beth smiled as she pictured the matriarch of the Morse family lingering over coffee at the lake house.
“Yes, I did. It arrived yesterday. Thank you for using snail mail. If I could only get my children to use it more often.”
“Does Wednesday work for you?” Unless disaster struck, Beth planned to deliver the final puppy on Tuesday, spend the night with Anita’s parents, and stop off to visit Bruce’s grandmother on the way home.
“Gracious yes, child. We’ll have a late breakfast—outside, if weather permits.”
“Dare I ask the reason you want to see me?”
“Are you frightened?”
“Not exactly.” Beth forced a light tone.
Mrs. Morse, at five eleven, could, and did, stare taller male relatives into submission. Up to now, the woman had been Beth’s ally and occasional advocate within the Morse family. She was not a person Beth desired to provoke.
“I’m tired of waiting. It’s time, past time really, to get this mystery around my grandson solved. I’m willing to pay top dollar to the right investigator.”
Tension fled from Beth’s shoulders, allowing her to relax in the office chair. Early efforts by Bruce’s father to find her husband had come to nothing. All that remained at this point was a photo buried deep on the Illinois State
Police website. Every six months she called in, spoke to a different officer assigned to missing adult cases, and attempted to stir Bruce’s name up from the bottom of the list. “I may be able to bring you a name. A local man with a good reputation.”
“Excellent. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Anything else I need to know before Wednesday?”
“Don’t think so. Greet those cousins of yours for me.”
“Will do. Thanks for calling, Mrs. Morse.”
“Granny to you. Regardless of what the rest of the family thinks, I consider you a bonus granddaughter.”
Blushing, Beth managed a few parting comments and disconnected the call. Hope sprouted like a seedling within her. Perhaps with a new effort, they could find the truth. The complete story, regardless of the details, would free her from living limbo. No. She mentally crushed the notion like a clod of dirt smothering a sprout. Over three years without tangible results meant she needed to live out the sentence.
A moment later, she opened the slender Crystal Springs phone book, found the business number, and left a quick message.
* * *
Jack’s Village Tavern vibrated with conversation, laughter, and one customer singing “On Wisconsin” in an off-key baritone. Pool balls clicked against each other, and both players and spectators at the pool table groaned. The families and elderly couples of the early supper crowd were gone. An equally hungry, thirstier, and louder group replaced them.
Jackson observed the boisterous clientele from one of the square tables while nursing a beer and waiting for his meal. He closed his eyes for a long moment, letting the sounds and scents of the establishment seep into his brain. Hot fish, beer, and his own aftershave mixed in the air around his head.
It had been a hectic week. His law client list was growing. While that was a good thing, he could have done without the complications involved with an assault turning into homicide. Add the class action. Two recent meetings had resulted in progress, but they were still a considerable distance apart on a few of the numbers.
His phone chimed with an incoming text, reminding him of his other problem. Since his move five weeks ago, his private email had been hacked four times. That he was aware of. Last night, he’d run scans on both laptop and phone, plus he’d changed passwords. Again. He was almost to the point of getting a separate phone for work. The idea, plus computer security in general, needed to be discussed with Mr. White when they spoke on Monday.
