Only they hadn’t connected in—how long was it?
He’d blamed the vodka for his lack of interest, but they both knew it was his lack of interest that caused her to turn to vodka.
She lifted the skirt of the table next to her lounge chair and reached for the bottle hidden there.
CHAPTER 22
I was rooting around in the refrigerator and not finding much of interest when the phone rang. To my surprise, it was Lucius Burke, who had left the Ashe home shortly before Underwood and me.
“Look,” he said, “I know you’re just ten minutes in front of a preacher away from being a married lady, but I’m down here at the Mountain Laurel and they’re running a special on grilled brook trout and we both have to eat supper, right? And since I’m not arguing any cases before you the rest of the week and I do have a couple of questions about last night, why don’t you come join me?”
I laughed. Not the most subtle invitation I’d ever had, but I love fish of any description and shared meals are always more fun than solitary sandwiches. And it was obvious that Dwight didn’t give a damn about me or how I might be spending my evenings. Out of sight, out of mind.
“Order me a Bloody Mary, not too spicy, and I’ll be there in five minutes,” I told him.
According to the back of its menu, the Mountain Laurel Restaurant on Main Street began life as a summer residence for a robber baron’s granddaughter. Built in the Queen Anne style so popular in the late 1800s, it dripped enough lacy gingerbread from every eave and angle to give a house painter nightmares and stop tourists dead in their tracks with dreams of romantic mountain summers spent lazing in one of the many wicker swings and rockers that dotted the wide wraparound porch.
Inside, most of the downstairs walls had been removed to create an airy open space. Instead of being tricked out like some Victorian fantasy, however, the dining room was almost plain, softened by the pale pink cloths that covered the sensible square tables and by baskets of ferns that hung in front of illuminated stained-glass windows. A few restrained botanical prints hung on the walls.
Here at seven-thirty, all the tables were taken and several people without reservations waited out on the porch even though the night air was cool enough for fall jackets.
The hostess led me to Lucius Burke’s table, and as I approached he stood and held my chair for me. A Bloody Mary awaited in a tall and elegant glass.
“Nice,” I said.
“The restaurant, the drink, or the prospect of dinner?”
His green eyes twinkled in the glow of the tiny lamp on the tabletop between us.
“Everything. I’m glad you called me.”
When I looked around the room, I saw that most of the men wore jackets and ties, although a few bold ones like Lucius wore crewneck sweaters under their jackets. The women were sleek in boiled wool Chanel-type suits and chunky gold or silver necklaces with matching earrings. I took a discreet glance at the prices on the right side of the menu and realized that this place catered to the wealthy seasonal people, not budget-minded day-trippers. Except for the waitresses, there couldn’t have been more than three other women under the age of forty in the restaurant.
Except for the waitresses?
Too late I remembered that the twins worked here, and, sure enough, there was June, deftly distributing plates to a table of six at the far side of the room. With a little luck—
“Did you wish a few more minutes to look over the menu?” inquired a familiar voice from behind me, and I looked up to meet May’s startled eyes. “Deborah?”
“Hey, May,” I said. “You know Mr. Burke, don’t you? Lucius, this is my cousin May Pittman. Her parents own the condo I’m using this week.”
Before they could do more than murmur polite acknowledgments, I said, “Lucius says you have a grilled trout special? That sounds good to me.”
Barely hiding her disapproval, May took our orders and flounced away.
“She didn’t even ask what kind of dressing I want on my salad,” I said.
He smiled. “Does she think you’re cheating on your deputy?”
“Probably.” I sipped my Bloody Mary. It was perfectly seasoned. “You said you had questions about last night?”
“One of Sheriff Horton’s detectives may ask you about this tomorrow. We were wondering about your relationship with Norman Osborne?”
“Relationship?” I was puzzled. “There was no relationship between us. What gave you that idea?”
“Osborne carried a little notepad in his jacket pocket. Your name was there on a list with a question mark beside it.”
“Really? What sort of list?”
“His home phone number. His wife’s cell phone number. A note about the date Ledwig died, followed by several miscellaneous names. All of them were there last night. Some of them were recent customers of his. We were wondering if you were a customer, too?”
I shook my head.
“Not planning to buy a second home up here in the High Country?”
“Sorry. But now that you mention it …” I described to him how Norman Osborne had scribbled something on a notepad as Sunny led him away to the buffet tables. “Maybe that’s when he wrote my name down, but I can’t imagine why.”
“We’ll ask Sunny tomorrow,” he said.
“She should know,” I agreed, then, changing the subject, I asked, “Will Osborne’s death make you revisit your decision about Danny Freeman?”
“Sure knocks it into a cocked hat,” he said. “His attorney’s already been in my office asking for a dismissal.”
May returned with our salads, and she had taken it upon herself to drench mine in a heavy blue cheese dressing.
“I’m so sorry,” I said sweetly, handing it back to her. “You seem to have brought me someone else’s. I wanted olive oil on the side.”
“I’ll switch with you,” Lucius said. “I like blue cheese.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
He passed me his virgin salad and the two little cruets that had accompanied it.
While we ate, we compared notes on mutual acquaintances, the type of crimes he prosecuted in an area whose population fluctuated with the seasons, and what the political climate was like out here—conservative in the small towns and hollows, liberal around the college down in Howards Ford.
Our trout arrived hot and crispy from the grill as our conversation wound back to the deaths of Ledwig and Osborne and whether there was indeed a connection.
“Captain Underwood seems to think there is,” I said.
“Sound man,” said Burke. “I’m hoping he’ll run for sheriff when Horton retires. Make my life a little easier. His cases are always solid.”
“Speaking of which, did Fletcher say anything to you about interviewing your local UPS or FedEx delivery people?”
He shook his head. “In relation to what?”
I described what I had noticed in the photographs. Like Underwood, the mailers had skipped his attention, too, which was understandable since he hadn’t gone out to the Ledwig home that day either. He agreed, though, that it might help pinpoint the time a little more precisely. “Too bad Fletcher and Horton missed them.”
“It was a big deck,” I said, “and they were naturally concentrating on the other side.”
“All the same,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
We both passed on dessert but lingered over coffee, which seemed to annoy May even more, although she was careful to hide her annoyance from Burke. Every time I glanced past his head toward the service area, she and June had their heads together and were glaring at me. Their disapproval amused me. Here were a pair who’d lied to their parents, spent their tuition money on opening a café, and had suborned friends into supporting that lie. Now they were indignant because I was having a friendly dinner with a colleague?
Please!
Burke left May a generous tip and we walked out to our cars together. The moon cast lacy shadows through trees that
were fast losing their leaves.
“It was a nice dinner,” I said. “Thank you for asking me.”
“Thank you for coming,” he said, a quizzical look on his face.
I wasn’t surprised when he drew me to him—the moonlight practically demanded it—and I didn’t resist as our lips met.
It was a perfectly fine kiss, but neither of us was breathing heavily when it was over.
“Sorry,” he said with a rueful smile, “but I wanted to know.”
“That’s okay,” I told him. “I did, too.”
CHAPTER 23
I was asleep before the twins returned to the condo, nevertheless, they were up before me next morning. I think they deliberately dragged themselves out of bed early so they could rag on me the moment I stuck my head in the kitchen.
“You kissed him!” June said. “I saw you.”
I shrugged. “And?”
May grabbed my left hand. “Doesn’t this ring mean a thing to you?”
I reclaimed my hand and poured a mug of coffee. The diamond flashed in the sunlight streaming through the east window and I looked at it thoughtfully. “I think it’s real pretty, don’t you?”
“Deborah!”
“Be serious,” said June. “How would you like it if you caught Dwight kissing someone else?”
“Dwight didn’t catch me,” I pointed out. “You were the ones spying. If you saw us kiss, then you also saw us get in our own cars and drive off in different directions, so drop it, okay?”
Truth to tell, the whole incident had kept me tossing and turning during the night. What did it mean that I couldn’t respond to a man as smart and handsome as Lucius Burke? Lafayette County’s district attorney was as luscious as his nickname, virile and sexy, with green eyes to die for. I’ve always been a sucker for green eyes. My bigamous first marriage was to a green-eyed man, and the first guy to really break my heart? He’d had green eyes, too. So what was going on here?
(“Is it that promise you made your daddy?” asked the preacher. “How you were going to be true to Dwight?”)
(The pragmatist sniffed. “Get real. It’s not just green-eyed men you’ve played the fool with over the years.”)
For a moment a snatch of my favorite Waylon Jennings CD played in my head: “… been a whole lot of good women shed a tear for a brown-eyed handsome man …”
A knock on the door abruptly interrupted my uneasy thoughts.
When May opened it, the girl who entered looked vaguely familiar, but I didn’t peg her till June said, “Hey, Trish. You’re out early.”
“School,” she said, making a face as she looked at her watch. “I can only stay about ten minutes. Carla said you wanted to ask me about Dad and Mr. Norman?”
She registered who I was about the same time I made her.
“Aren’t you the judge from Danny’s hearing Monday?”
“She’s our cousin,” May explained as I nodded.
“And you’re Trish Ledwig, right?” I said.
“It’s okay,” said June. “She’s on our side. Sort of.”
“Pretend I’m not here,” I said. “In fact, I’ll leave if you like.”
“That’s okay.” She sat down at the table across from me, and when the twins offered her coffee, asked if she could have a Coke instead.
Caffeine’s caffeine whether it fizzes or steams.
I studied her over the rim of my mug as she popped the top of the Coke can. Like her sister, she had long dark hair and hazel eyes, and a pretty heart-shaped face. She wore well-cut jeans, boots, and a brown leather jacket over a buttercup yellow jersey. There were tiny gold studs in her ears, and a small gold cross hung from a thin chain. No makeup except for a dash of lipstick.
“Do you know what’s going to happen to Danny?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t.”
“There’s a deputy up at the house right now asking about when some stuff was delivered. He even made me dig out the envelope my CDs came in.”
“You still had it?” I asked, surprised.
She looked equally surprised. “You know about it?”
“Those pictures they showed me in court Monday,” I reminded her. “I noticed some mailers lying on a table by the deck door.”
Enlightenment crossed her young face. “So that’s why they’re just now asking.”
“But those pictures were taken two weeks ago,” I said.
“Longer.” Her voice was sad. “Dad was killed sixteen days ago.”
“And you still had the mailer your CD came in?”
“They’re all still there.” She explained how she’d forgotten about the order she’d placed till last night, when she’d thought to check the tracking number. “Mom just gathered them up that day and stuck them in Dad’s study.”
“Do you remember the time on the tracking page?” I asked.
“I printed it out for the deputy—two thirty-eight.”
“Are packages routinely left on the deck?”
Trish shook her head. “They’re usually leaning against the front door if nobody’s home when they come.”
The twins appreciated the significance of what Trish was saying, but they were more interested in learning why her dad’s friendship with Norman Osborne seemed to have cooled in the month or so before his death.
“I really don’t know,” Trish told them, “but I’ve been thinking about it ever since Carla asked me. I did remember a phone call that Sunday, though. The day before he died.”
“Osborne called him?” May asked.
“No, Dad called Mr. Norman. See, what happened was that Bobby and Joyce Ashe stopped by for drinks. Dad was still freaking about Carla and Danny so I stayed in my room till after they were gone, but when I went downstairs to ask Dad about my car—it was in the shop and I was having to get him or Mom to drive me places—he was on the phone in the living room and I heard him say, ‘I’m sorry, Norman, but I can’t stand by and let you do this to them.’ And then he said, ‘I don’t care if it is legal, it’s not ethical.’ Then he saw me and told Mr. Norman he’d call him later and hung up.”
“Legal but not ethical,” June mused.
“You don’t know what that was about?” asked May.
“No, but whatever it was might not’ve been why they hadn’t seen much of each other before, because Dad sounded like he’d just found out about something he didn’t want Mr. Norman to do, not like it was something he’d known all along.”
“Who was the ‘them’?” I said. “The Ashes?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try asking Mom again, but …” Her voice trailed off and the twins exchanged knowing glances.
Having seen Tina Ledwig’s capacity for vodka last evening, I had a feeling I knew what Trish’s “but” meant.
She checked her watch. “Time’s up. Gotta go. If Mom says anything, I’ll tell you. It sucks that she won’t help Carla hire a real detective. I just hope you can figure it out because it’s eating her and Danny up. Dad could be tight-assed about things, but he would’ve come around and Carla knows that.”
She grabbed her Coke and left.
I followed her example and headed for my morning shower before the twins could get on my case again.
Wednesday seemed to be Lafayette County’s day for assaults on females and domestic violence in general, but at lunchtime I didn’t have to go out because George Underwood appeared at my chamber door with a thermos of hot homemade vegetable beef soup.
“What’s this in aid of?” I asked, breathing in the hearty aroma as he opened the thermos and filled two mugs for both of us.
“A thank-you for noticing those packages,” he said. “We talked to the UPS guy that made the delivery that afternoon. Looks like Mrs. Ledwig’s alibi’s not as tight as we thought it was. She matches the description of the woman he gave the packages to. He says she was walking out to her car when he got there, so he handed her the things and the computerized scanner automatically entered the time—thirty-eight minutes after th
e bartender says she came into the club.”
“I take it you’ll be speaking to the bartender again?”
Underwood nodded. “I called the club. He comes on duty at one.”
Afternoon court was made interesting by the fact that I had caught on to the flow and rhythm of William Deeck’s methods. Yesterday, for instance, I noticed that he would present me with a string of egregious check-bouncers, habitual shoplifters, or repeat thieves, then slide in someone who seemed basically decent or who had yielded to temptation for the first time. His prosecution would be just as rigorous, but the contrast between defendants was such that most judges would automatically be more inclined to listen sympathetically to whatever justifications a court-appointed attorney might offer.
If Deeck realized that I knew, he didn’t let on by so much as a raised eyebrow.
It was late in the afternoon. We had just finished four trashy cases of domestic violence, men and women hammering on each other. The first, second, and fourth were men who had punched out their women. The third was a woman who’d thrown a kettle of boiling water on her man because he drank up all her bourbon—“And then damned if he didn’t smoke my last cigarette, too!”
Not a marriage license among them and I’ve quit trying to decide whether or not this is a good thing.
Then Deeck presented me with something completely different: the State v. Richard Granger, a tall, lanky man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties. Granger was accused of hunting turkeys out of season up on Laudermilk Ridge, a rather wild and isolated area. Testifying against him with great relish was an equally raw-boned neighbor, Hank Smith, who differed in appearance mainly by the large, slightly soiled bandage over his left ear.
In exchange for Smith’s testimony, the State had agreed not to prosecute him for hunting out of season himself.
High Country Fall Page 17
