Framed!

by Robin Caroll

  Clenching and unclenching his fists under the table, Max didn’t flinch. This guy had it all wrong.

  “Did you say no? Get in each other’s face?” Sam scrutinized Max’s expression. “I think you did. I think that meeting ended badly.”

  Max worked to control his breathing.

  “I think you called him the day of the murder and told him you’d reconsidered. Asked to meet him again, same place.”

  Oh, this wasn’t looking good at all.

  Sam straightened and gestured in the air. “Don’t worry—we’re already working on getting a warrant for your phone records. Home, cell, office. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Which would disprove this arrogant agent’s theory.

  “And Dylan did meet you, didn’t he? He did, thinking you were going to agree to leave his sister alone. Only he got a bigger surprise. Maybe he saw that medallion and realized you’d pulled one over on him. Maybe you taunted him with it, telling him you could see his sister and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.”

  Talk about barking up the wrong tree. This guy wasn’t even in the right park.

  “What happened then? Exchange of punches? You know, the autopsy report reflected a couple of bruises in the abdominal area that weren’t explained. Did he rip the chain off your neck? Go to slip it in his pocket and the chain fell off?”

  Max’s heart pounded. This guy really thought he’d murdered Dylan. Over Ava.

  “He got the best of you, so you got the gun you probably brought with the intention of shooting him and shot him in the back. Then you grabbed the necklace off the ground and ran, not realizing the medallion had made it into Dylan’s pocket. You left him for dead. Is that what happened?”

  Biting his tongue to keep from screaming out how absurd the idea was, Max tightened his jaw.

  “I think that’s exactly what happened. And you watch, we’ll prove it. We’re getting search warrants for your home and office and autos as we speak. We’ll find out where you got the gun and what you did with it after you shot Dylan Renault in the back.”

  As far-fetched as Sam’s theory was, Max couldn’t ignore the fear seeping into him. Innocent people didn’t get charged for crimes they didn’t commit.

  Did they?

  SEVEN

  Would she ever stop cringing at the sight of a police vehicle?

  Ava’s day had been stressful enough without pulling into her driveway and spying the sheriff’s cruiser parked in the circle. The setting sun painted orange streaks against the blue backdrop of the sky. A breeze carried the hint of bayou on its wings.

  Exhaustion took up residence in every muscle she had. After meeting with the department heads of the Renault Corporation and asking for department reports by Monday, she’d spent the afternoon working on Jocelyn’s wedding. Reserve Reverend Harmon for the date, check. Order the flowers, check. Make arrangements for the wedding to take place outdoors, check. Order the cake and punch for the reception, check. Good progress, but Ava was drained. And now to come home to this.

  She rested her forehead against the steering wheel and closed her eyes. If only she could go to sleep and wake up with all of this having been a bad dream.

  But it wasn’t a dream. None of it.

  Lord, please give me strength.

  She let out a moan, slung her designer bag higher on her shoulder, slammed the car door shut and made her way up the stairs.

  Bosworth opened the door before she could reach for the knob. “Ms. Ava, Sheriff Reed is here to see Ms. Charla, but she refuses to talk to him. He said he’d wait for you.” He shut the door firmly behind her, disapproval for the sheriff oozing from his every pore.

  No escaping for her.

  “Thank you, Bosworth.” She set her purse on the foyer table.

  “I sat him in the sitting room.”

  But of course, in the sitting room. Where else?

  When would this dreadful ordeal end? It all wore her slap out—keeping up the family appearance, trying to go on with life, dealing with her mother’s antics. With a sigh, she straightened her shoulders and entered the sitting room.

  Sheriff Reed shoved to his feet. “Ms. Ava.”

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?” The tiny thread of patience she had left threatened to snap.

  “It’s about Dylan’s case.”

  Her heart hiccupped. They had to have questioned Max about the medallion by now. Had they found out something more? Maybe she’d get an answer to at least some of the questions keeping her mind warring with her heart. “Yes?” She struggled to remain composed as she took a seat on the Queen Anne wingback chair and crossed her legs at the ankles.

  “We’re working on figuring out what his last words meant.”

  Relief stormed through her, followed by a good dose of disappointment. Nothing about Max, but also no answers. “I’d like to know that as well, but as I’ve already told you, I haven’t a clue what he meant.”

  “I understand that. But we’d like to rule out one possibility for sure.”

  “What’s that?”

  Sheriff Reed looked sheepish and wouldn’t meet her eye. “We’d like to rule out the possibility that he’s the father of Sarah Farley.”

  All the air left Ava’s lungs with a whoosh. It was one thing to wonder it herself, but to have the police question the possibility…She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Just to rule out one angle we’re looking into.”

  “Dylan never even dated Leah.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s the general consensus, but it is possible, as she worked for your brother near the time she got pregnant.”

  “But Earl was Sarah’s father.”

  “Could be that isn’t totally accurate.”

  “He was Leah’s husband.” Her head hurt with the implications. “I don’t see how any of this relates to Dylan’s murder.”

  “Well, we’re just trying to rule out possibilities.” Sheriff Reed flipped pages in his notebook.

  “What could it remotely have to do with my brother’s murder? If he was Sarah’s father, outlandish as that is.” But the thought butted against her conscience. She, herself, had pondered the possibility.

  “I’m not real sure, ma’am, but the FBI believes it’s potentially linked to the other murders. We have to find a connection.”

  “I see.” But she didn’t. Was this just a tactic to smear her brother’s name more than it already was? “What do you want from me?”

  “I tried to talk to Mrs. Charla, but the maid said she still isn’t feeling so good.”

  Ava smoothed her skirt. “Mother’s taking Dylan’s death very hard. I’m sure you can understand. He was her only son.”

  And Ava’s only sibling.

  “Yes, ma’am. But what we’d like is her authorization to use the samples taken from Dylan to run DNA testing against Sarah Farley.”

  She couldn’t stop the gasp. “You kept samples of my brother?” Horror snaked along her spine.

  A blush tinted the sheriff’s cheeks. “Yes, ma’am. It’s standard procedure to retain tissue, blood and organ samples during an autopsy.”

  Bile rose in the back of her throat. Standing on wobbly legs, she breathed in slowly, exhaling even slower. “I don’t see what good this will do. Maybe you should just wait until Leah is found. I’m sure she knows who her daughter’s father is.”

  “This paternity test will eliminate one of the theories revolving around motive and, well, um…you’d just know.”

  Ava didn’t know Leah well, just in passing, but her heart ached for that poor little orphaned Sarah. Could the child be her niece?

  But what if she wasn’t? Would the gossip-mongering people of Loomis like Micheline Pershing ever let the speculation die if answers weren’t provided? Proof-positive answers, at that. “And it’d put an end to the rumors, right?”

  “Well, that, too, ma’am.” At least he had the decency to avoid her gaze.

  “I’ll think about it and discuss it
with Mother.”

  “I’d sure appreciate it.”

  “Bosworth will see you out.” Ava rushed from the room, gestured to the butler hovering in the foyer and ran up the stairs to her private suite. She made it to the bathroom just in time to be sick.

  Four hours in a small sheriff’s interrogation room was enough to put anyone in a bad mood. For Max, it was beyond horrifying.

  He’d made his call to the company lawyer more than an hour ago. How long did it take for him to talk to one of the other attorneys in the practice and send someone over? Fortunately, the FBI agent had left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

  And his fears.

  Sheriff Reed swung open the door. “Mr. Tanner here to see you. Your lawyer.” He nodded to the bald, thin man. “We’ll give you fifteen minutes before we come back.” He shut the door behind him.

  Mr. Tanner extended his bony hand. “Mr. Pershing, I’m Lyle Tanner, an attorney in Carl’s firm.” He set a briefcase on the floor, withdrew a legal pad and plopped it on the table. “So, what’ve we got?”

  Max filled the lawyer in on what had transpired. It was difficult to read the man—his expression never changed. Max would hate to be against him in a poker game. “So, they have an item of yours on the body and your meeting with him the week before the murder at the crime scene?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the ongoing feud between your family and his?”

  “Right.”

  Mr. Tanner laid his pen on his pad, lowered his glasses on the bridge of his nose and peered at Max over their rim. “I have to ask, Mr. Pershing, did you kill Dylan Renault?”

  Max flexed his jaw muscles. “I most certainly did not.”

  The attorney stared until Max thought he’d turned to stone. Finally the man pushed his glasses back where they belonged. “I believe you.”

  Was there ever a question? What kind of lawyer was he?

  “Now, tell me what they’ve said to you since you’ve been here and what you’ve stated. Don’t leave anything out, no matter how minor. It could be legally important and a violation of your civil rights.”

  Okay, maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

  Max relayed the conversations almost verbatim. When he was done, the lawyer let out a heavy sigh. “Good, you haven’t said anything that could incriminate you.”

  “But I didn’t do anything, so how could I have incriminated myself?”

  “Law enforcement can use whatever tactics they deem necessary to try to get a confession out of you. They can lie about evidence, circumstantial or physical, they can tell you lies about what people have told them…Pretty much, they can do whatever it takes to get you to confess.”

  “But a confession wouldn’t be the truth. I didn’t kill Dylan.”

  Lyle Tanner chuckled, surprisingly deep for his slight frame. “Mr. Pershing, they don’t care about truth. They only care about solving their case. Period.”

  “Call me Max.” He shook his head. “But they’re focusing on me and not even looking for the real murderer.”

  “Call me Lyle. And you’re right. But that happens all the time. Trust me, I’ve seen it all. I used to work at a large firm in Baton Rouge. You’d be amazed at the number of times I’ve seen innocent people charged with crimes while the real criminals go free.”

  “Are they cleared?” Max’s heart raced.

  “In some cases, yes. Sadly enough, not in all cases.”

  Now Max’s gut clenched to the point of causing him to catch his breath. “So some people go to trial for something they didn’t do?”

  “Not just go to trial. Are convicted and sent to prison.”

  “How can that happen in this day and age?” The absurdity slammed against Max’s conscience.

  “Unfortunately, the way the laws are written, they basically give law enforcement free reign.”

  Outrageous. “So what do I do?”

  “You answer their questions honestly. If it’s a question I don’t think you should answer, I’ll touch your wrist.”

  “But why shouldn’t I answer? I’m innocent.”

  Lyle sighed and shook his head. “Weren’t you listening to me? It doesn’t matter that you’re innocent. They don’t care. They only care about closing a case and what they think they can prove to a jury.”

  This was all moving way too fast. Very frightening to consider he could be charged and convicted of something he didn’t do.

  The conversation halted as the door to the interrogation room swung open. Sheriff Reed, Deputy Bertrand and Special Agent Sam Pierce waltzed in, forming almost a semicircle around Max and Lyle.

  “Are you ready to talk now, Pershing?” Apparently, the FBI agent would head up the questioning.

  “My client will answer your questions, Agent Pierce.” Lyle Tanner exuded confidence.

  “Fine.” Sam turned his attention to Max. “Where were you between the hours of ten thirty and eleven thirty on January 23?”

  Max swallowed hard. “Um, I was at work.”

  “In the office?”

  “No, I had a meeting out of the office.”

  “Where and with whom?”

  Max’s gut tightened into a wad. “I was supposed to meet an appraiser, Denny Wren, at one of our properties on Merchant Street.”

  Sam cocked his head. “Supposed to?”

  “Well—” Max licked his lips “—I was supposed to, but Denny never showed.”

  The sheriff and deputy both made notes. Not Agent Pierce. He continued to stare at Max. “So you were out of the office for how long?”

  Max shrugged. “Maybe forty-five minutes or so.”

  “Why so long? Your office isn’t that far from Merchant Street.”

  “I waited fifteen minutes for Denny before I realized he wasn’t going to show. Since I didn’t want to have the time totally wasted, I looked around and did my own calculations. Then I went back to the office.”

  “Can anyone collaborate your story?”

  “I—I don’t know. I—”

  Lyle touched Max’s wrist and interjected. “Mr. Pershing has stated where he was at the time of the murder. I do believe it’s your responsibility as investigating officers to verify alibis, is it not?”

  Sam didn’t bother to answer the lawyer, just went right back in on Max. “You’ve identified the medallion as belonging to you. How did it come to be in the victim’s pocket?”

  Again, Lyle touched Max. “My client has already stated on the record that he doesn’t know how Mr. Renault came into possession of the medallion.”

  “Why did you meet with the victim the week before his murder?”

  Lyle jumped up from his chair. “These questions are redundant, Agent Pierce. Asked and answered on record.” He slipped his notepad into his briefcase. “If you have nothing new to ask my client, either charge him or let him go.”

  Sam straightened, his jaw firm. “Don’t leave town, Mr. Pershing.”

  Everyone seemed to be telling him that exact same advice.

  And never had he wanted to run away so badly.

  EIGHT

  How to broach the subject?

  Ava paused outside her mother’s door. She could only imagine Charla’s reaction when she brought up the paternity test. More than likely, it’d cause another crying fit. While she didn’t feel up to such after the long day she’d had, Ava didn’t have much of a choice.

  Dear Lord, please give me the words to approach this from the right angle.

  She knocked softly. There was no response. She knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing.

  A tendril of apprehension tickled between her shoulder blades.

  The patio door slammed from the other side of Charla’s suite. Ava started, then opened the door.

  Bosworth, face flushed and thick, gray hair mussed, met her at the door. “Oh, Ms. Ava.”

  She glanced from Bosworth to her mother, sitting demurely in her wheelchair by the window. “Have you been outside, Mother?”

&nbs
p; “What’s wrong with getting a little fresh air?”

  “Nothing.” Certainly not. At least her mother was dressed appropriately and apparently getting out. “I’m glad to see you up and about.”

  “I’ll just take your dinner tray to Bea.” Bosworth lifted the sterling silver service and moved past Ava. He shut the door behind him.

  Ava sat on the lounge.

  “What do you want now, Ava?” Charla sounded tired and distracted. At least she wasn’t yelling.

  “Sheriff Reed came by today and—”

  “What did he want? That man is incorrigible and a disgrace as a lawman. Why, the way he dogged my poor Dylan, thinking my son could have something to do with that…that gold digger’s death…”

  Oh, this wasn’t going to go as well as Ava’d prayed. “He presented me with a solution to stop all the rumors going around town about Dylan and Leah.” She swallowed, waiting for her mother to blow.

  Charla didn’t blow. She narrowed her eyes. “There was nothing between Dylan and that trash. Nothing.”

  “Mother, Leah was a nice girl, but that’s beside the point.”

  “What does Bradford want?” Charla looked more like her regular self now than she had since Dylan had been shot.

  “He wants your permission as next of kin to run some tests on samples taken during Dylan’s a-a-autopsy.” Even now, just thinking it, much less saying it, made Ava’s stomach turn over.

  Apparently, it didn’t shock or sicken her mother. “What kind of tests?”

  “A paternity test.”

  “What? A paternity test for what? On whom?”

  Her mother wasn’t this dense. She had to be shocked by the proposal. “On Sarah Farley.”

  “Leah and Earl’s girl? Whatever for?”

  “Mother, surely you know that because of Dylan’s last words, speculation is that he’s Sarah’s father.”

  “That’s ludicrous. Totally inconceivable.” Charla’s arms flailed like a pelican about to take flight.

  “Have you seen Sarah Farley lately? She has the Renault eyes, Mother.”