Inherit the Shoes

by E. J. Copperman

  ‘Sor-ry, Sandra. You know, you should signal before you change lanes that fast.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just … I don’t know which way this case is going.’

  ‘I understand. Eat your pizza.’ So we did for a while.

  Finally, Angie could stand the silence no longer. ‘So what comes next?’ she asked.

  ‘Not much, unless my PIOUS contact comes through.’

  ‘Yeah, what the hell was that about?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m not saying anything unless it pans out. If it doesn’t, we haven’t lost anything.’

  The phone rang, and I got up to answer it. I reached for the phone with one hand and the refrigerator door (to grab a couple beers) with the other. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ms Moss, this is Lieutenant K.C. Trench.’ I held out the beers to Angie with a new and different sense of urgency. I felt as if Trench could see the alcohol through the phone lines.

  ‘What can I do for you, Lieutenant?’

  ‘This might seem like a somewhat … unusual question, Ms Moss, but, do you have Henderson Meadows there?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’ll assume that means you don’t. Well, apparently Mr Meadows has been missing since he left the courtroom on the day of his testimony.’

  For his days off, according to Trench, Henderson Meadows kept a small bungalow in Long Beach, about a forty-minute drive from Los Angeles, assuming a neutron bomb had been dropped so there would be no traffic. When I arrived at the address Trench had given me, the lieutenant immediately told me there was no reason for me to be there.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘It just seemed the thing to do.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have called you at all, but I know he’d been a witness at your trial. If you were planning on calling him again, there would have been some difficulty.’

  ‘I appreciate it, Lieutenant. You’ve been nothing but fair the whole time. I can’t say that’s always the case with police officers and defense counselors.’

  ‘Don’t let it go to your head, Ms Moss,’ Trench said without the hint of a smile (which is how I knew he was kidding). ‘I have a strange obsession with discovering the truth.’

  ‘So you don’t think Patrick McNabb killed his wife?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Trench said.

  As he walked away, I looked toward the road and saw Patrick approaching in his car. He looked grim, but his first question was naturally about me.

  ‘How’d you get here?’ he asked.

  ‘Angie drove me. She was going to stay, but I told her I’d catch a Lyft back. She was afraid we’d find him … not so alive. Angie’s a little squeamish.’

  ‘Funny. She doesn’t look it. You didn’t … find him that way, I mean.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s not here. Doesn’t look like he’s been here in some time. When was his last day off?’

  ‘He takes Saturdays, except when we’re … I’m entertaining, and Tuesdays. So, Tuesday.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t report him missing?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Apparently he has a sister in the area, and he was supposed to visit her a day or two ago. But he didn’t show up. The last time anyone saw him was at the courthouse.’ Patrick kicked at some rocks in the driveway. ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  We stood there a moment, lost in our thoughts. Finally, Patrick said, ‘I don’t know why I’m here. I left as soon as Trench called, but now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ I admitted. ‘Why don’t you give me a ride home?’

  ‘Love to.’

  In the car, we spoke about everything except the trial. I told Patrick about my continuing insecurity about moving from New Jersey, and he laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I demanded, my insecurity reaching new levels.

  ‘I came here from England ten years ago without a dime in my pocket and no contacts, no friends, no place to live, no hope of employment. And you’re telling me about how hard it is to fit in, at a new place to practice law, when you move from another state? I came from another country!’

  ‘You don’t know New Jersey,’ I told him. ‘It is another country.’ I smiled.

  ‘My apologies.’

  ‘It must have been awfully hard for you,’ I said. ‘How did you get started in movies?’

  ‘Well, I’d done some work for the BBC, you know, so I had a reel I could show around. And it had pretty eclectic stuff on it: costume dramas, comedies. I never had a large part, but I did what I could with what I had.’

  I smiled playfully, noting I wasn’t paying attention to the way Patrick was driving, which meant he was driving the way I would have. ‘Did you always believe you were the character, or is that new with Arthur Kirkland?’

  Patrick raised one eyebrow and looked at me sideways, keeping his face turned toward the road. ‘I don’t really believe I’m Arthur,’ he said. ‘But you know, in order to play the part honestly, I have to put myself in his situation.’

  ‘You’ve certainly done that.’

  He nodded as he pulled up to my building. ‘All right, then.’

  I looked at him. ‘Would you like to come up? I could make coffee, if your definition of “make coffee” is going to Starbucks to get some.’

  ‘I’d like to, but I have an early call tomorrow,’ Patrick said. ‘Something about being in court on time. If I’m not there at the appointed hour, I’m sure Fox News will make it into a major scandal.’

  ‘Come on up. Angie’s always glad to see you.’

  Patrick smiled with the left side of his mouth. ‘I’m always glad to see Angie, so long as she’s on my side.’

  ‘She’ll always be on your side. She’s your biggest fan.’

  ‘But you’re not.’

  I felt my face get hot. ‘I don’t watch a lot of television.’

  ‘Let me guess. Just the news and PBS, right? And you go to foreign films, preferably subtitled, not dubbed. You stream Kurosawa, and you read not bestsellers but collections of short stories. You drink white wine and eat salmon. Television is beneath you.’

  ‘Come on up,’ I said. ‘I think we have some pizza and beer left over.’

  ‘All right, then.’

  Patrick parked in a visitor’s spot in the underground garage, and we took the elevator up to my apartment. I felt comfortable vibes on the way up, though neither of us said anything. But when Patrick moved casually closer, I didn’t move away.

  We stopped in front of the door as I fumbled for my keys. Patrick moved a little closer, and when I looked up from my purse, he was a few inches from me, at a distance Angie referred to as ‘a lip and a half away.’

  ‘Patrick.’

  He didn’t lean toward me, but I’m sure it was only because he didn’t have time. The door flew open, and Angie, phone in hand, waved us inside. We complied.

  ‘All right. I’ll tell her. Yes, I wrote down the number. I swear! OK. Bye.’ Angie put down the phone as I closed the apartment door. ‘Well, it’s about time,’ she said.

  ‘About time? I’m probably twenty minutes behind you.’ I got two beers out of the fridge and gave one to Patrick. ‘Any pizza left?’

  ‘Sandy, I haven’t been off the phone since I got back. First, your pal from PIOUS called.’

  ‘Evelyn Draper?’ I’d arranged for Evelyn to be released on my recognizance so she could operate freely. ‘What did she say?’

  Patrick stared at me. ‘You’re talking to members of PIOUS? Are you mad?’

  ‘No, I’m in a good mood. What’d she say?’

  ‘Just that it had taken some persuading, but she convinced them. That’s what she said – “I convinced them.” And she got the information you needed.’ Angie pointed at the pizza box on the counter, and I looked at Patrick while pointing at the oven and raising my eyebrows. He shook his head as we both took cold slices and paper plates, almost immediately gnawing away.

  ‘Really? That’
s great,’ I said through a mouthful of pizza. Angie was right. They really didn’t know how to make crust out here. And I don’t even want to discuss bagels. ‘Did she leave a number?’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not the weird part.’

  Patrick sat on a barstool by the kitchen counter, fascinated. ‘Do you two always communicate this way?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ I said, turning my attention back to Angie. ‘What’s the weird part?’

  ‘You got three calls from executives at record companies – three separate record companies, all wanting to know how much it would cost to get the rights to a new album by Patsy.’

  Patrick nearly fell off his barstool. ‘A new what?’

  I took a swig of beer, enjoying the rapt attention I was getting from both Angie and Patrick. ‘Did they ask what kind of album it was?’

  ‘No. What the hell’s going on?’ Angie said.

  ‘Did they mention figures?’

  ‘One of them said he was authorized to offer an eight-figure deal, but he’d be willing to negotiate if others offered more.’

  Patrick’s eyes looked like huge hubcaps on a Lexus SUV.

  I grinned from ear to ear. ‘Better and better,’ I said.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  ‘Your Honor, I’d like to call a rebuttal witness.’

  For Judge Walter Franklin, looking down from the bench, it was all he could do to keep from screaming. ‘Ms Moss, there have already been more rebuttal witnesses in this trial than in my last fifteen trials combined. Is this absolutely necessary?’

  ‘It is vital, believe me, Your Honor.’

  ‘Oh, all right. But keep it to the point, please.’

  ‘Yes, Your Honor. The defense calls Marilyn Caswell.’

  Caswell, a mousy type with slumped shoulders and a short bob, walked to the stand and was sworn in. She sat, looking gloomy and avoiding eye contact with the jury.

  I approached her and spoke in soothing tones. ‘Ms Caswell, are you a member of a Patsy DeNunzio fan group called PIOUS?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Caswell said. ‘Patsy’s International Order of United Servants.’

  ‘And you’re very dedicated fans of Patsy’s music, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she repeated. ‘So?’

  ‘I’m just asking, Ms Caswell. Now, this organization is a very serious undertaking for you, isn’t it? I mean, you dedicate a lot of time and effort to your devotion to Patsy.’

  ‘That’s right. We want everyone to hear what we hear in the music. Patsy’s music has kept me going many times. Once, when I was really down, it kept me from killing myself.’ I could have lived without the jury getting that revelation, but I pressed on.

  ‘Some of you became a sort of informal security force for Patsy, didn’t you? Watching over her home, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Marilyn said. ‘We called it “keeping vigil.” All the big acts have people like that. George Harrison used to call them Apple Scruffs.’ She seemed proud of the Beatle comparison. It put Patsy – and PIOUS – into rarefied company.

  ‘Did you ever keep vigil outside Patsy’s house?’

  ‘Yeah, plenty of times.’

  ‘Were you keeping vigil the night she died?’ I put as much sympathy into my voice as I could, knowing that her devotion as a fan probably made Patsy’s murder into a personal affront.

  ‘Yeah,’ Marilyn said quietly. ‘I was there. I didn’t know what was going on inside, or I’d have done something.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure of that. But you saw Mr McNabb drive up?’

  ‘Oh sure,’ said Caswell. ‘He’d come by plenty of times. When they were married, he used to bring out snacks for us and make sure we were warm enough – things like that.’

  ‘Did anyone drive up after Mr McNabb?’

  ‘The police, a while later, and then an ambulance.’

  I nodded. ‘But no one between the two? No one after Mr McNabb and before the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t see a blue 2003 Acura drive up that night?’

  ‘No,’ Caswell said, apparently growing a little impatient with this dimwit of a defense attorney. ‘Nobody else drove up.’

  Cates stood up, showing off his weariness. ‘Is this going anywhere, Judge?’

  Exactly what I was hoping he’d say. ‘Your Honor,’ I said before Franklin could answer, ‘Melanie DeNunzio testified that she saw Patrick McNabb kill his wife because she’d driven to the house to drop off some clothing she’d borrowed from Patsy. But Ms Caswell has testified she did not see the 2003 Acura, which Defense Exhibit H – the motor vehicle records – will show is Melanie’s car. And neither did any of the other PIOUS members who were outside the house that night.’

  ‘I think that’s relevant, Mr Cates,’ said the judge.

  Cates sat down.

  ‘Did you see anything else unusual that night, Ms Caswell?’

  ‘Yeah, and I wish I’d done something about it right away, but it was happening so far away, I couldn’t tell what it was. If I’d acted, maybe Patsy might be alive today …’ Caswell sniffed loudly and blew her nose into a handkerchief she was holding.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Caswell. What did you see?’

  ‘I was outside the gate, you know, on the west side of the house, so I was about a hundred yards away, and there are trees and things there, so I didn’t see clearly. Honest, I would have found my cell phone …’

  ‘It’s OK, Marilyn. Please, just tell us what you saw.’

  ‘A man – at least, I think it was a man. Outside the dining room window.’

  FORTY-NINE

  Bertram Cates’ cross-examination of Marilyn Caswell did not constitute one of his career highlights. He extracted very little new information, annoyed the witness by once referring to her as a ‘groupie’ (‘I’m not a groupie. Groupies sleep with the star. I don’t sleep with nobody.’), and scoffed at her testimony, asking how the mysterious man outside the dining room window might have gotten there, inasmuch as she hadn’t seen another car drive up. The witness answered, ‘I guess he walked.’

  When Cates lit on another idea, and asked if, since she’d seen only McNabb’s car drive up, whether Patrick could have been the man outside the dining room window, Caswell said with great certainty that he was not. And when Cates, with great pomposity, asked how she could be so sure from so far away, Marilyn Caswell delivered the crushing blow I’d wanted.

  ‘Because I could see Patrick turn on the light in the bedroom,’ she said.

  Cates dismissed the witness with no further questions.

  Franklin looked down at me through his half-glasses and asked, ‘Next witness, Ms Moss?’

  I was about to say I was resting my case, but, instead, I was granted a movie moment all my own. Nate Garrigan opened the door to the courtroom and walked toward me purposefully, something close to triumph on his face.

  ‘Your Honor,’ I asked, ‘may I have a moment?’

  ‘Yes, but just a moment, Ms Moss.’

  I rushed to meet Garrigan, who leaned in and gave me the news I’d been waiting for. I’d been expecting something, but nothing this good. I shook my head in disbelief, then gave Garrigan a kiss on the cheek. He looked surprised. I quickly scanned the gallery, noted one specific onlooker, and approached the defense table.

  ‘Your Honor, the defense has one more witness.’

  Franklin heaved a sigh. ‘It’s not a rebuttal witness, is it, Ms Moss?’

  ‘No, Judge. I’d like to re-call a prosecution witness.’

  ‘Someone present in the room?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honor,’ I said.

  Franklin seemed relieved. ‘Good. We won’t have to take a break. Go ahead, Counselor.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honor. The defense calls Lucien DuPrez.’

  DuPrez, seated near the rear of the courtroom, looked shocked. His head snapped up, his mouth opened, and his legs actually shot forward in his seat, almost kicking the man in front of him. But he managed to compose himself long enough
to stand up and walk to the witness stand.

  The judge reminded him of his oath, and I walked to his side. ‘Mr DuPrez, thank you for being here,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all. I’m interested in the outcome of the trial. I hope to see Patsy’s killer brought to justice.’

  ‘So do we all, Mr DuPrez,’ I said. Before anyone could object, or throw up, I added, ‘But you have an interest in this case that’s financial as well as moral, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Well, let me ask the question another way. Do you stand to profit personally from Patsy DeNunzio’s work, now that she’s dead?’

  ‘Just as I did when she was alive,’ DuPrez said. ‘I was Patsy’s business manager.’

  ‘You’re also her heir,’ I reminded him. ‘Patsy left you the rights to all her business interests, didn’t she?’

  DuPrez nodded. ‘Yes, she did. But as I explained before, Patsy’s work was in decline, and all she had left was a hip hop album I couldn’t sell.’

  ‘Yes, you did say that. Has that changed since her death?’ I was facing the gallery, not the witness, because I didn’t want DuPrez to make eye contact with me and seem sympathetic. I wanted him to search around the courtroom.

  ‘Not really. Patsy didn’t put out any new work after that.’

  ‘No, but her market value has risen, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Her market value?’ DuPrez was being purposely obtuse.

  ‘Yes. Mr Menzies, the expert in memorabilia, said the value of an object goes up when the performer dies, because everyone knows there will be no more. Isn’t that true of a recording artist like Patsy DeNunzio?’

  ‘Not really,’ DuPrez said. ‘If the work had no value before her death, it has no value now. Jennifer Lopez could walk in front of a bus tomorrow, and Gigli is still going to be a lousy movie.’

  I nodded. ‘Interesting. Mr DuPrez, yesterday I very casually circulated a rumor among her fans that I controlled the rights to an album of new material from Patsy. It wasn’t true, but by last night, I had received offers from three record companies.’

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to be that rap album, was it?’ asked DuPrez.