“What the hell happened to you?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll explain later, Sara. I promise. I’ve got to pay the cab driver and get to court.”
“You’re going to court dressed like that? Our worst client looks better than that. You gotta at least comb your hair.”
“Please, Sara, just give me a twenty.”
She shook her head, opened the petty cash box and handed me the money. As I grabbed the bill from her fingertips, Eddie emerged from the back office. “Molly?”
“Hi, Eddie,” I said as I headed for the door.
“What’s up with you?”
I didn’t stop to answer.
“She’s late for court,” Sara said.
“Dressed like that?” I heard Eddie say as the door shut behind me.
I handed the money to the relieved driver and told him to keep the change. I walked a block and crossed the street to the courthouse. As I slipped into the courtroom, Dale Travis spoke in an earnest voice to the group of prospective jurors, asking questions and jotting down responses.
I slipped up the aisle. He turned toward me just then. His eyebrows shot up so high, I thought they might fly off. I smiled. He scowled. He turned back to the jury. I sat in the bench behind the defense table. I whispered a condensed version of the night’s events into the assisting attorney’s ear.
She scribbled a quick note and held it up in front of her chest. Dale glanced at it and waved her off. She extended her arms and pushed the note toward him and shook it.
Dale blew an exasperated breath and turned to the judge. “Your Honor, may I have a moment, please, to consult with my colleague?”
“Yes, you may, Mr. Travis, but make it quick.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
He put his arms on the table and leaned forward, casting a disgusted look at me in the process. I smiled. He listened to the other attorney and looked up at me with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. He spun around and said, “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?”
“Certainly.”
Dale and Ted Kneipper whispered to the judge. Dale was calm but forceful. Kneipper’s arms flew in every direction when he spoke. Abruptly, the two men turned back around and walked toward their respective tables, Dale with a slight smile hiding in the corners of his mouth, Kneipper with a furrowed brow and clenched fists.
Curiosity buzzed through the rows of onlookers, causing Judge Krause to slam her gavel. The crowd noise ended as if she’d pressed a mute button. “Deputy, please escort the prospective jurors to the deliberation room.”
The men and women who’d responded that morning to the call of justice shuffled across the front of the courtroom and out the side door. When the last one disappeared from view and the deputy nodded at the judge, she said, “Court is adjourned for fifteen minutes,” and slammed her gavel again.
“Gentlemen, I’ll see you in my chambers,” she said looking from Kneipper to Travis. She rose with a judicious swish of black robes and descended the steps. She paused then and turned to face me. “Miss Mullet, you’d best join us.”
She exited the courtroom, the two attorneys fast on her heels. I trailed behind them, and as I pushed the wooden swinging door, I heard loud voices in the back of the courtroom. I turned to find the source of the commotion and saw the red face and agitated demeanor of the Comal County Sheriff. By his side, a pale chief of police barked back at him as they entered the double doors.
I stepped into the judge’s chambers, and the clerk pulled the door closed behind me. Dale gestured to an empty chair and I slid into it.
“Dale, this best not be another of your fancy courtroom hijinks.”
“No, Your Honor. Trust me, I save all my hijinks until after the jury is empanelled,” Dale said with a laugh.
The judge glared at him. She was not amused.
“Don’t trust him, Judge,” Kneipper said. “Travis is as full of weasely moves as a barn full of ferrets.”
“You all are both lawyers, and I am one, too. Based on my many years of experience with this species, I do not believe it is wise for me to trust either one of you. But why don’t we try you on for size, Ms. Mullet. Just what is going on here?”
I pulled one side of the bandage loose from my neck, wincing with each tug.
“Oh my,” said Judge Krause. “I don’t think even Travis would go this far for a bit of courtroom drama,” she said to the prosecutor. To me, she asked, “Who did this to you?”
“Stan Crockett, ma’am.”
“And you think this same man also committed the murder we are about to try Mr. Wiggins for?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A buzzer blared on the judge’s desk. She pressed a button and said, “Yes?” A loud pounding on the door drowned out the response at the other end.
Dale rose, cracked open the door, looked out, and then pulled it wide open to reveal the sheriff and the police chief. Both looked agitated now.
“Sorry for barging in like this, Your Honor, but your clerk didn’t want to let us in,” the sheriff said.
“She was just doing her job, gentlemen. Now what’s on your mind?”
“We arrested the guy who did that,” the sheriff said, pointing to me.
“There’s a possibility that he also killed Rodney Faver,” the police chief added.
“Possibility? Your Honor, Stan Crockett killed Rodney Faver,” the sheriff contradicted his cohort.
“We don’t know that with certainty yet, Sheriff,” the police chief argued.
“The man confessed. What more do you need?”
“So did Bobby Wiggins,” the police chief retorted.
“So you claim,” the sheriff snapped back.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the judge interrupted.
“Sorry, Your Honor,” both men mumbled in unison.
“Ted, do you think a withdrawal of the charges against Wiggins might be in order?”
The district attorney looked like he’d taken a punch in the gut. His eyes blinked in a staccato rhythm, his mouth opened and shut like a landed fish. He looked at the judge as if he didn’t understand a word she said.
“Ted? Pay attention,” the judge ordered. “It looks as if Ms. Mullet here just flushed your case down the proverbial toilet. Should I save the taxpayers a few dollars and dismiss this case?”
Kneipper swallowed hard. “Dismiss without prejudice, Your Honor?”
“With prejudice, Your Honor,” Travis countered. “There’s no reason to keep Wiggins hanging on the hook on these groundless charges.”
“Without prejudice,” the judge pronounced. “At least until we sort this mess out.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Dale responded.
“Let’s go back into the courtroom, gentlemen, Molly.”
We filed out and took our seats as the judge ascended to the bench. She called for the deputy to bring the jury pool back into the room. When they were seated, she thanked them all for their willingness to serve and sent them on their way.
Then it was time for the two attorneys and the judge to complete their official last waltz. When all the proper steps were executed, the judge slammed down her gavel and said, “Court adjourned.” She then turned to Bobby and said, “Mr. Wiggins, you are free to go.”
For a moment the courtroom was as silent as a church in prayer. Then a roar erupted. The prosecution team left the room by the back door to avoid the press.
Thelma, sobbing and laughing at the same time, hugged Bobby. Still holding one of his hands, she threw one arm around Dale Travis and pulled him tight against her. Her eyes met mine over the top of Travis’ shoulder.
Thelma moved in my direction, tugging Bobby behind her through the crowd of backslapping well-wishers who smothered the defense table. She sat down on the bench beside me and pulled Bobby down next to her. “Thank you, Molly. We can never repay you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wiggins. There’s no need.”
“I must say though, when I saw you creep in here in that outfit,
I thought you must’ve been drinking.” She tilted her head and examined my neck. “From the looks of it, girl, I’d say a hangover would have been a blessing.”
She dropped Bobby’s hand and with a touch lighter than butterfly wings pressed my bandage back in place. Even with her gentleness, a searing pain streaked across my throat.
Next to Thelma, Bobby’s expression bounced between a grinning pleasure to that of a lost and bewildered boy and back again.
“I need to get Bobby home,” Thelma said. “Praise the Lord, that sounds so sweet. He needs some quiet time to understand what happened here this morning.”
I nodded and winced.
Thelma patted my cheek and rose. “Come on, Bobby, let’s go home.”
“Home?” Bobby asked.
“Yes, home, Bobby,” his mother said.
Bobby followed her for a few steps. Then he stopped, turned and retraced his path. He threw his arms around me, pinning my arms to my sides. “Thank you, Molly,” he said, and we both burst into tears.
Chapter Fifty-One
A deputy gave me a ride home at last. I stepped up on my porch where the tattered remnants of yellow crime scene tape, once tied to the railing, now flapped in the breeze. I opened the front door with only one thought on my mind: a hot cup of chamomile tea followed by a nice, long nap.
The chaos in the living room stunned me as I stepped inside. An occasional table lay on its side. Beside it the shattered remains of my great-grandmother’s lamp, ruined beyond repair, the hand-painted windmill on its pottery base no longer recognizable.
One corner of the Oriental rug in the center of the room was stained a rusty black with what I assumed was my dried blood. The poor rug looked like a lost cause. Beside the rug, more blood soaked deep into the grain of the wood on the boards of the oak flooring. Hopefully, a light sanding would restore it.
In the kitchen, I turned on the teakettle and surveyed the damage. Someone had swept a pile of glass to the side of one cabinet. Here and there I spotted the twinkle of missed pieces strewn across the floor. A scrap piece of plywood fastened by big, ugly nails hung over the missing pane in the door. Next to the door, a square hole in the sheetrock revealed the skeleton of the house—in all likelihood, the spot where the bullet lodged after passing through Monica.
I opened the cabinet doors under the sink. My paper bags were untouched and now worthless. As the teakettle whistled, the telephone rang. I splashed water over the tea bag in the waiting mug and picked up the kitchen phone.
“Molly?”
“Yes.”
“This is Sergeant Barrientos—Rick Barrientos—Austin P.D.”
“Hello, Sergeant.”
“I understand congratulations are in order.”
“Yes,” I said with a smile. “Bobby is out of jail.”
“And Stan Crockett’s behind bars.”
“Have you charged him with Jesse Kriewaldt’s murder?” I asked.
“Not yet. Crockett confessed to Faver’s murder and claimed it was self-defense. He insisted, however, that he didn’t do Parker or Kriewaldt.”
“You believe him?”
“No. Not at all. Right now, I’m waiting for word on a search warrant. When I have it, we’ll get hair and blood samples from Crockett to compare with the evidence we found at the murder scene.
“The Hays County Sheriff’s Department doesn’t buy his claim of innocence in the Parker case, either. They’re all over at Crockett’s house now, and a team of evidence techs is on their way there from Austin. What they hope to find is the weapon he used to shoot Parker, but so far no sign of it.”
“Do you know about the DNA on the T-shirt I took to a lab in San Antonio?”
“Yeah, your attorney called me about that. Kind of weird, getting an assist from a defense attorney. But this whole case has been pretty weird. I called the Texas Rangers’ office down in San Antonio. They’ve got someone going over to pick up the evidence from the lab. The way I figure it, Crockett put on Wolfe’s T-shirt and pulled on the orange poncho. From his dry run, he knew the gap around the neckline might leave blood on the shirt underneath, so he had to wear someone else’s shirt and picked one of Wolfe’s. He left the poncho on the body, but he discarded Wolfe’s shirt in the kick drum where he knew it would appear hidden, but someone would find it and turn the investigation away from him. But, Molly, there’s another reason I called.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Well, uh, this isn’t exactly business, so Rick would be more appropriate.”
“Okay, Rick.”
“I’d like to see you again—unofficially. How about dinner sometime?”
“Sure,” I said with a grin. We made plans. He’d pick me up Saturday night at 7:00.
I hung up the phone with a smile engraved in my face and finished preparing my cup of tea. In the bedroom, I exchanged my stolen shirt for a large faded T-shirt, soft, worn and still bearing a fading scent of the dryer sheet that hugged it as it spun dry. I slipped off my crusty jeans and two-day-old panties and eased my battered body under the covers.
I sipped my tea, propped up in bed, grinning like a schoolgirl. The phone rang again. It was Mike Elliot.
“I thought you’d want to know that Susan Tedeschi is playing here Thursday night.”
“Oh, man, that’s right. It kinda slipped out of my mind. I would love to see her.”
“I thought so. I, uh, put your name on the list at the front desk. I was hoping you’d come as my guest. I’ll be working that night, but I’ll still be able to find some time to sit with you. That is, of course, unless you want to bring someone else with you. I could put another name on the list if that’s what you want.”
“Of course, not, Mike. I’ll be your guest. That’ll be great.”
“I’ll see you Thursday night, then.”
“See you then. Thanks, Mike.”
My, my, my. A wounded, bandaged neck. A few stray scabs still decorating one side of my face. And go figure. I’ve never been more popular. I fell asleep feeling like the queen of the ball.
I’m not sure how long I lay there, lost to the world, when the doorbell rang. I pulled off the covers and swung my legs out of bed. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest. Grunting with the effort, I picked my jeans up of the floor. Yuck! I dropped them again in disgust.
I walked over to the dresser to find a clean pair and the doorbell rang again. “Just a minute. Just a minute,” I shouted.
I shuffled to the front door while each creaking joint responsible for my mobility begged me to lie back down. There on my porch was Trenton Wolfe, and by his side was Bart Seidell. I was speechless and wary.
Seidell broke the silence. “May we please come in and have a word with you, Ms. Mullet?”
I pulled the door all the way open and gestured them inside. “Please do,” was all I said.
They sat side-by-side on my sofa. Seidell looked comfortable. His face bore that serene—albeit obnoxious—one-day-I’ll-be-a-judge look that influential and successful lawyers often wore. Wolfe, on the other hand, fidgeted with discomfort.
Seidell poked Wolfe with an elbow and flashed a smile at me.
Wolfe swallowed a couple of times and spoke. “I owe you an apology, Ms. Mullet.”
Yes, you do, buddy. And it’s killing you, isn’t it? I thought as, in the back of my mind, my mother’s voice badgered me to be gracious. I was not in the mood. I could still feel the sting of his name-calling like a fresh slap in the face. Although I couldn’t force myself to be the forgiving hostess, I could follow my mother’s other maxim: if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.
After an awkward silence and pointed looks from his attorney, Wolfe continued. “And I owe you an explanation, too.” He cleared his throat.
I sat imperious in my chair with regal posture and my hands in a proper but prissy pose in my lap. I’m not proud to admit it, but I enjoyed watching that man squirm.
“You see,” Wolfe said, “the night
we wrote—uh, I thought we wrote—‘Bite the Moon,’ I had indulged in a lot of wine, marijuana and other illegal substances.” He turned to Seidell with a question on his face. Seidell nodded and Wolfe said, “I really don’t remember much about that night. I just remember the next morning, Stan said, ‘Let’s run through it again.’ And I said, ‘What?’ And he said, ‘The song we wrote last night.’ And I said, ‘What song?’ ”
Seidell rolled his eyes and shifted his weight on the sofa.
“Then he pulled out the lyrics he said I wrote and he typed up,” Wolfe continued, “and the melody he said he composed and then scored after I passed out.”
“And you believed him?” I asked.
“Well, yeah. And after we did that first run through, I thought maybe I should get wasted more often. This was really good stuff,” he said with a chuckle.
“Get to the point,” Seidell interrupted.
Wolfe shrugged. “So, anyway, after all this came down, I went digging.”
Seidell sighed.
“Uh, Mr. Seidell went digging and found a copy of Jesse Kriewaldt’s CD. And we knew the truth. I never wrote those lyrics. Jesse did. I knew Jesse had been around that day we did the gig at Solms Halle. And he looked real happy when he left. At the time, I just figured Rodney stroked his ego and gave him encouragement for his future. You know, the rah-rah, you’ll be a great songwriter someday speech. Rodney always had a soft spot for those sad sacks. Looking back, though, I imagine what really happened is that Rodney made him a belated offer for the purchase of the rights to ‘Bite the Moon.’ I guess Rodney then confronted Stan about stealing the song. And you know the rest.”
“All this for one song?”
“It wasn’t just the royalties. Our whole rep was built on that song. And Rodney was fielding commercial offers to use the song to push product.”
I closed my eyes and swallowed. One song. Three deaths—almost four, I thought as my hand brushed across the bandage on my neck. I opened my eyes when Seidell spoke.
“We are on our way to the police department here in New Braunfels. We thought we owed you an explanation first. After we make a statement here in town, we’ll stop at the Hays County Sheriff’s Department and then continue north to the Austin Police Department. Once again, we deeply regret any inconvenience or affront we may have caused.” He rose to his feet and stuck out his hand.
Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery Page 21
