Proof of Innocence

by Patricia McLinn

  Theresa or Kevin Addington breaking into the guesthouse and intruding on her privacy might seem far-fetched, but she’d learned a long time ago, apparent niceness was no guarantee.

  That long-ago understanding, patient voice. Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?

  Dallas cleared his throat. “I knew J.D. hadn’t done it.”

  The abrupt reference to the trial didn’t throw her.

  “You’re going to tell me you’d known Carson all his life and he couldn’t hurt a fly?”

  “I have known him all his life and I’ve known him to kill flies beyond measure. But I knew he hadn’t done the crime you were prosecutin’ him for.”

  She snorted. “Defense attorneys always know their clients are innocent.”

  “I can’t speak for other defense attorneys, but in my case, you are quite wrong. It’s the knowin’ that was different with J.D. Not knowin’ is muddy water, and muddy water quenches a defense attorney’s deepest thirst for reasonable doubt. Now clear, cold facts — that’s what a prosecutor wants. Sureness. To see clear to the bottom. Defense attorneys are a different breed. We have the capacity for not knowin’ and being satisfied with it.”

  What if he’s innocent?

  That instant.

  That frozen instant, looking at Carson.

  The words as if they’d come from someplace outside her.

  Dallas was going on, unaware she’d dipped below the surface of his muddy water. “That’s why it was different with J.D. I knew he hadn’t done that crime.”

  “How could you know?”

  Satisfaction folded his face into a smile. “It comes from the bones, through the sinews, and into the flesh.”

  “I don’t have the bones and sinews for knowing if someone’s innocent?”

  “Not your bones and sinew, young lady. J.D.’s. It came from that boy’s bones, through his sinews, and into his flesh.”

  Bones. Sinews. Flesh.

  She snapped her head up, found what she expected — Dallas watching her, taking in every nuance of whatever she failed to hide.

  She braced for probing. Instead he waxed philosophical.

  “They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but eyes can be taught to lie. The body isn’t as adept. That’s the basis for polygraphs, as I’m sure you know. Physiological changes come with a lie. So, who’s to say there’s not a physiological change when a soul’s tellin’ the truth — soul-deep truth — and another body can’t feel it?”

  “That’s all fine and sentimental and ethereal. But you know and I know there was plenty of evidence to convict him. I believe he murdered Pan Wade.”

  “You think he might have, but you don’t believe down to your toes. That’s what bothers you. That’s—”

  Gardner stepped into the room from the kitchen.

  “I don’t see anything out of place, Maggie. Are you sure—?”

  “I am sure. There are items I keep—”

  Carson and the deputy appeared behind Gardner, two more taking advantage of Dallas’ lax security to arrive unannounced.

  “Didn’t see anything,” Abner reported. “But it’s hard to tell for sure at night. Something might be visible come daylight.”

  “Thank you for comin’, Sheriff,” Dallas said. “With all you have on your mind to take time out to deal with this little domestic matter—”

  “If that’s what I thought, I wouldn’t have come. A break-in while Maggie’s looking at these murders and staying here isn’t a coincidence I like. But there’s nothing more to be done tonight.”

  “Yes, there is,” Carson said. “Call a locksmith. Get new locks tonight. Or get her out of there.”

  She squared off to him. “I won’t be scared out.”

  “And I won’t be blamed for anything happening to you.”

  Gardner held up a stop-sign hand. “Already called. He’ll be out in an hour.”

  “You’ll stay here until he arrives, Maggie,” Dallas said.

  Carson crossed to the corner of the couch where he’d been earlier, picked up his book and sat.

  “I don’t need you to—”

  He interrupted. “I need you — to witness I was under your watchful eye from the time the sheriff left until the new locks were on.”

  * * * *

  Wednesday, 12:37 a.m.

  Dallas rose, yawned. Everyone gone at last. Needed sleep to be half useful tomorrow.

  He detoured to the mantel. And yet, with the cool silver under his fingertips, he didn’t move the candlesticks.

  He stared at them, seeing Maggie’s fretful fingers shifting them to an unsymmetrical angle.

  Maggie Frye, who he would have predicted with absolute confidence would line them up into perfect order. Even more than Ruth.

  Could he have missed an aspect of Maggie?

  * * * *

  Through binoculars, J.D. Carson watched Rick Wade enter the showroom from the back lot. Where had he been?

  He sure wasn’t just returning from the guesthouse after all this time.

  Wade poured himself a mug of coffee, then went to his office, closing the door. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, sat at the desk, and opened a program on his computer.

  J.D. adjusted focus, trying to read what was on screen. No good from this angle. He saw the format, not the characters.

  Wade appeared settled in.

  J.D. shifted the view to a salesperson doing paperwork. This late? Had to be trying to impress the boss.

  When he’d tracked Wade here this afternoon there’d been a handful of people around.

  He put away the binoculars.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  4:04 a.m.

  Maggie was awake when the phone on the bedside table rang.

  It still made her jump.

  Both those facts — she was awake and she jumped — made her snap “Hello?”

  Nobody was there. Just air.

  She gave a second “hello?” More air.

  She hung up.

  Tried to get some sleep.

  Commonwealth v. J.D. Carson

  Witness Melanie Forbes (prosecution)

  Direct Examination by ACA Frye

  Q. Thank you for that concise explanation of the cause of death, Doctor Forbes. To recap in layman’s terms, would you say it was fair to say that Pan Wade was shot at close quarters with her own gun?

  A. No more than eighteen inches.

  Q. Thank you. In your autopsy for the state medical examiner’s office, did you find other wounds, such as might be expected if someone tried to defend herself?

  A. None.

  Q. Mrs. Wade made no effort to defend herself when someone raised and aimed a gun at her from eighteen inches away, as if she trusted the person who—?

  Mr. Monroe: Objection. Asked and answered.

  THE COURT: Sustained. Proceed, Ms. Frye.

  Q. Will you tell us, please, what — if any — items you found in your examination of Pan Addington Wade?

  A. In addition to the usual clothing items, which we sent to the forensics lab for examination, we found a piece of paper with handwriting on it.

  Q. Where did you find this paper?

  A. In her mouth.

  THE COURT: Silence. There will be no outbursts in this courtroom. Proceed, Ms. Frye.

  * * * *

  6:41 a.m.

  Maggie let herself into the office with the key Dallas gave her last night — right after the locksmith gave one new key to the guesthouse to her and the only other one to Dallas.

  The upside of sleeping poorly was she’d been awake to leave the guesthouse before anyone sidetracked her.

  Even that early, though, she’d had to sidestep behind a rhododendron when she saw Evelyn entering the back door, and heard the murmur of her morning greetings with Dallas through an open window.

  She’d passed under that window in time to hear Dallas describe her as “flinty-eyed Maggie Frye.”

  She allowed herself satisfaction as she walked to the office of Monroe & As
sociate. Nice to know she’d been right about his Southern chivalry crap.

  If she’d encountered anyone, she’d say she arrived at the office this early to avoid the temptation of an Evelyn breakfast.

  Not switching on lamps, she used daylight seeping in through the front window to deposit her briefcase, then returned to the hall, waiting while her eyes adjusted before she went to the closed door on the left.

  She hesitated with her hand on the knob. But not long.

  She stepped in to Carson’s office.

  The small room had a single window, which at first glance appeared to have been bricked over. Second glance recognized it had a view across a narrow gangway to the brick wall of the building next door. A shallow puddle of sunlight touched the floor below the window, barely strong enough to cast a shadow.

  Small, lacking natural light, and ascetically neat. It could have been a cell — in a prison or a monastery.

  She scanned the ordered bookshelves, labeled file drawers, desktop clear of everything except a computer.

  Not that she expected to see anything incriminating.

  Carson was far too smart to leave anything where it could be easily found, and in a semi-public place, no less. Besides, he was almost certainly too controlled to keep anything at all.

  No trophies, no spill-all journals, not for J.D. Carson.

  The room told her he was neat, orderly, precise.

  While there’d been a strong undercurrent of emotion in the murders — the face-down posing of the bodies, for instance — the scene and victims were meticulously devoid of clues. Someone who knew what he — or she, Maggie added scrupulously — was doing and disciplined enough to do it.

  So, what was this niggle of surprise she felt, looking over Carson’s office?

  Contemplation of that abruptly gave way to alarm and adrenaline.

  A sound behind her spun her around.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “If it’s not just like Laurel Blankenship Tagner to make her exit from this earth a spectacle that’s thrown everything into an uproar,” Evelyn said from the sink, her back to him.

  Dallas knew she’d taken in the evidence of his sleepless night with one look.

  He grunted. “Including boxing J.D. even tighter into never leaving this county.”

  “Can’t blame Laurel for all of that.”

  “I should’ve gotten him out of here,” Dallas said.

  “It’d’ve taken dynamite.”

  “At least we wouldn’t have flinty-eyed Maggie Frye searchin’ for a way to charge him with murder again. You saw her last night — she looks at him like she’d like to take a bite out of his jugular.”

  “Or something,” Evelyn murmured.

  “What?”

  “I said—” She faced him. “—or something. There’re times she looks like she’d like to bite something on J.D., not his jugular.”

  “You think…?”

  “I think.” She tied her apron. “Not that she’d act on it the way things are. Not in a million years. Same as him.”

  “Same as — What are you saying?”

  “It’s not one-way. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Good Lord!” He leaned against the counter, reviewing tones, looks, silences. “She tried to convict him of murder.” He wasn’t arguing. He was commenting on the outlandishness of humanity.

  “He does work in mysterious ways.” She took the pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator.

  “Evelyn, you always do make me feel better.” He chewed over what she’d said. “You know, if Maggie became convinced J.D.’s innocent that might be enough to make him see leaving here isn’t running away. If you’re right — and you most always are — that could make it easier…”

  “Or harder. That one—” She tipped her head in the direction of the guesthouse. “—won’t fall over with a puff of wind. Besides, how could you hope to make her sure he’s innocent?”

  * * * *

  Ed Smith smiled at the girl who took his money through the drive-through window. It was harder to smile when she handed him the white bag with the telltale smells.

  Guilt.

  He preferred Cheforie’s burgers and fries, but it was easier to stop for coffee and a sausage sandwich on his way to the office without Charlotte knowing.

  She didn’t approve of Cheforie’s.

  He wasn’t clear if her disapproval stemmed from nutritional or social issues. The outcome was the same. No Cheforie’s within reach of Charlotte’s knowledge.

  He circled the cup of coffee, finding the opening in the lid by accustomed feel as he drove one-handed. The first hot, potent sip, brought an “Ahh.”

  Whatever benefits tea — herbal, Charlotte insisted — might claim, it couldn’t match this.

  Once, he’d been late leaving for his hour-plus drive to work, and caught sight of the judge in the drive-through. They never spoke of it, and Ed made sure never again to hit Cheforie’s at that hour.

  Out of town, on the familiar twisting road, he peeled back the coated paper and bit through layers of biscuit and sausage patty.

  God, he’d missed this.

  It was a small enough thing to sacrifice while he stayed home with his wife grieving for her murdered sister.

  He took another bite.

  His particular branch of the Smiths had never dealt with a tragedy like the death of Yvonne Blankenship when the girls were young. Though he wondered — not for the first time — if anyone truly could have been the marvel of womanhood and motherhood the family made her out to be.

  And now the murder of Laurel.

  He finished the biscuit sandwich and wedged a napkin between his left hand and the steering wheel to better wipe his greasy right fingers. He started on the second sandwich, finishing well before traffic increased at the edge of Lynchburg.

  The gantlet of condolences from his superiors, colleagues, and support staff took him by surprise. Each person he encountered expressed shock and sorrow, and each encounter slowed him, allowing more and more people to add their sympathies.

  He thanked them, concentrated on the shock and horror, promised to ask for help if there was anything they could do.

  Finally, in his office, with the door closed with solicitous gentleness by the assistant, he allowed himself the thought that perhaps what would help the most was what had already happened — the removal of Laurel Blankenship Tagner.

  Society was unlikely to agree.

  That was the problem that threatened to sweep away the life he knew.

  He found the button by feel and pressed it.

  He would ordinarily handle the mundane task himself. But she offered.

  “Would you find out who represents Eugene Tagner, and if he drew up a will for Laurel?”

  In his stomach, the coffee and sausage biscuit churned acid, making him feel exactly the way Charlotte warned about.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Scott’s face shifted. Had it struck him he was apologizing, yet she was the one who was where she shouldn’t be?

  “No problem.” She walked past him to the coffee machine.

  From the corner of her eye she saw him look into J.D.’s office, then at her. “Do you need something? Something I could help with or…?”

  “No. Thanks. I heard a sound.” She lifted a shoulder. Thankfully she hadn’t started going through drawers. “Didn’t see anything. Probably a mouse.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think even a mouse would dare go in J.D.’s office uninvited. Now, Dallas’ office could host a whole convention of mice.”

  “Great. Thanks for that image,” she muttered. She squinted at the unfamiliar coffee machine. If it weren’t dark in this hallway she’d be able to figure out the damned thing.

  “Mama used to say the crumbs on Cousin Dallas’ shirtfront could feed an entire family.”

  She pressed a button. Nothing happened.

  “Here, let me
get that for you.”

  She stepped back.

  “Mama had a way with words. She could talk anyone into anything.”

  Except her husband into staying, Maggie thought, considering what Dallas had said.

  “Certainly could talk me into anything.” Scott’s cheeks and throat tinted mottled red, his eyes misting. “Such a shock when she passed. Cous — Dallas helped me so much. Drew my interest to the courtroom. Such a fascinating theater. One where I’m privileged to play my small part on the stage of justice.”

  Maggie imagined how Nancy would respond to that description.

  “But the pain lingers. It does linger. That’s why I know how it must be for you now.”

  What was he talking about? Her mother was remarkably healthy and blessedly three thousand miles away — not that Maggie would tell him that. She didn’t want to encourage discussion of her family.

  And there’s the fact you’re all from complicated families … Google’s a wonderful thing.

  At this point she didn’t even want coffee. But since he blocked any graceful exit, she would stay until the coffee machine finished.

  “It’s got to be hard, keeping your mind on this investigation.”

  “Not hard at all,” she said grimly.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’d never shirk your duty, but when the heart’s involved, it’s difficult to keep your head from following.”

  Her heart had nothing to do with it.

  “Maybe you and Roy will get back together after this is over.”

  Roy? Oh.

  “Scott, do you have the transcript from v. Carson?” It was an abrupt change of subject, but if he thought she was sensitive about Roy, maybe he’d accept that and she could get on to something useful. “If it’s going to take much longer — because of your other duties — I can—”

  “Oh, I’ll have it ready real soon. I’d’ve had it by now but I didn’t expect to take this many calls for Dallas and Jack Dan.”

  “Jack Dan?”

  His brows rose. “Carson. Didn’t you know?”

  “His legal name is J.D.” She’d checked and double-checked he hadn’t been charged under an improper name, leaving a loophole for him to climb through.