by Gail Oust
A glance at my watch told me it was nine o’clock and time to leave. I left Krystal, who’d waited on me, a hefty tip. Maybe she’d use her tip money to repay me. Maybe pigs will fly.
Badgeley Jack Davenport IV’s office was located three blocks down, across from the courthouse. The cornerstone of the two-story brick building bore the date 1887. His name was neatly stenciled on the door in gold letters. While the exterior may have been unimpressive, the same didn’t hold true for the interior. The minute I stepped foot inside, I felt as though I were in a Victorian parlor. A settee in ruby red velvet and several overstuffed chairs were grouped near a fireplace with a hand-painted tile surround. A gigantic Boston fern occupied the space usually reserved for logs. An Oriental rug in tones of ruby, sapphire, and emerald covered the hardwood floor. I don’t know much about antiques, but I’d wager the elaborately carved mahogany end tables were genuine and not reproductions. Bad Jack, it seemed, was a man with expensive tastes.
A woman with lots and lots of yellow hair piled high and sprayed within an inch of its life sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. The large flat-screen computer monitor was the only modern concession.
She turned to greet me, her round face wreathed in a friendly smile. “Mornin’. How y’all doin’?”
“Mornin’,” I returned, unintentionally imitating her lazy drawl.
“Name’s Aleatha Higginbotham. I’m BJ’s personal assistant,” she said with an irrepressible giggle. “Sounds much fancier that way than sayin’ I’m his secretary, don’t it now?”
I found myself instinctively warming to the woman. Ms. Higginbotham looked as soft and fluffy as one of those body pillows I’d seen on sale at Target—and just as comfy. She seemed to favor bright, splashy colors—pinks, purples, and reds—if her present outfit was any indication. Some might call her flowered polyester blouse gaudy, but I thought it suited her just fine.
“What can I do for you, hon?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Davenport. He’s representing a good friend of mine,” I added.
“I don’t suppose that person happens to be Ms. Claudia Connors Ledeaux, would it now?”
“Why yes, how did you guess?”
“I like to tell folks I’m psychic, but don’t think anyone believes me.”
I wasn’t sure quite how to respond, so I chose the easy route. “Is Mr. Davenport in?”
“He called to say he’s running a mite late. Shouldn’t be long. Why don’t you have a seat? Care for a soda? I’d be happy to put on some coffee.”
“Ah, thank you, but no.” I gingerly lowered myself onto the velvet settee. I bet even repeat offenders were careful not to crush the fabric.
“Had you pegged for a Yankee the minute you walked in. Almost offered you iced tea, but all’s I got is sweet tea. Most folks from up north don’t care for it. It’s an acquired taste.” She straightened a stack of mail on the edge of her desk, lining it up with military precision. “Sorry about your friend’s trouble. But she’s come to the right place. If anyone can help, it’s Badgeley.”
I couldn’t help but notice she referred to her employer by his first name. “Have you worked for Mr. Davenport long?”
“Heavens, yes,” she said with a laugh that set her ample bosom jiggling. “Ever since he got out of law school.”
“So he’s always had an office here in Brookdale?”
“Mercy, no. He had a thrivin’ practice over in Birmingham. Sold it and moved to Brookdale after the missus died. I had nothin’ keepin’ me in Alabama, so I packed up and came along. Real happy here, too. Guess both of us are small-town folks at heart. Where did you say you were from?”
“Toledo,” I replied. What the heck, it wasn’t exactly a state secret. Slick as ice, the woman had me answering a question that hadn’t been asked. Maybe I should take notes.
“Toledo? That in Indiana?”
“Ohio.”
“Right, Ohio. Never had cause to cross the Mason-Dixon Line. Like it fine here in the South. Did go to Vegas once, though. Isn’t that where your friend hooked up with Mr. Ledeaux?”
Our conversation ended when Badgeley Jack charged through the front door. “Sorry I’m late, Miz McCall. I went by the jail to see my client, then stopped at the courthouse. Her arraignment’s set for this afternoon at one.”
Chapter 19
The Babes and I presented a united front at Claudia’s arraignment, filling the entire first row of the courtroom. Diane, Tara, and Megan had managed to finagle time away from work. Diane agreed to stay an hour later at the library. Tara, brave soul, traded nap time for playtime with a coworker at the day care center. Megan arrived at the last minute in pink dental scrubs after bribing a friend to switch lunch hours. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bill slip into a seat at the rear. Eric Olsen, out of uniform in jeans and a polo shirt, slid in beside him in a show of support for a fellow actor. I noticed he gave Megan a friendly wink as she hurried past. Um, interesting . . . I wondered if more than friendship had blossomed between the pair.
Promptly at one o’clock, Judge Rochelle Blanchard entered and took her seat on the bench. She was an attractive woman I estimated in her mid-forties with skin the color of café au lait. Her tall figure made an impressive sight in the flowing black robe with its starched lace collar. The stern, unsmiling expression on her face had me wondering if she was related to Sheriff Sumter Wiggins.
Just then a side door of the courtroom opened. Claudia, accompanied by Badgeley Jack Davenport, stepped out and approached the bench. My heart wrenched at the sight of her. She looked drawn and pale after a night in jail. She still wore the same outfit she had at bunco, but the wool slacks and sweater were wrinkled and no longer looked fresh. Although she had run a brush through her hair and applied lipstick, no amount of makeup could conceal the dark circles under her eyes.
“I hate to see her like this,” I whispered to Pam.
“Me, too,” Pam said, giving my hand a squeeze.
“Suppose she knows we’re here?” Gloria wondered, her voice hushed.
“She knows,” Janine answered. “I saw her glance our way.”
The judge banged her gavel, and we lapsed into silence. A slight man with thinning hair and stooped shoulders—the prosecutor, I assumed—joined Claudia and her attorney. The bailiff read the charge of involuntary manslaughter.
Polly leaned across her daughter to ask, “What’s that mean?”
“Shh, Mother.”
Polly’s lower lip jutted out, clearly not happy at being shushed. Believe me, it isn’t a pretty sight when a septuagenarian pouts like a two-year-old.
Judge Blanchard leveled a look at Claudia. “How does the defendant plead?”
“Not guilty, your honor,” Claudia said, her voice quiet but firm.
“Attagirl, sugar,” Connie Sue whispered.
I felt like shouting my approval as well. Maybe have Connie Sue Cheerleader rally the Babes. I could almost hear her yell, Give me an I!. Give me an N! until we spelled innocent. The world, the court—and Sheriff Wiggins in particular—needed to take note that Claudia was indeed innocent of the horrid charge against her. Our friend wasn’t a murderer.
Badgeley Jack, dapper as usual in a candy-striped bow tie and navy blazer, addressed the judge. “Your honor, my client requests she be released on her own recognizance.”
The county prosecutor fairly bristled at the request. Even the sparse hairs at the nape of his neck stood at attention. “Your honor, the state objects. The prosecution has just learned the defendant recently renewed her passport and is deemed a flight risk.”
“The defendant will relinquish her passport and is further advised not to leave the county without permission of the court,” said the judge. After consulting her calendar, Judge Blanchard set a trial date. She banged her gavel, concluding the proceedings.
We gathered round Claudia, liberal with hugs and words of encouragement. She smiled wanly, a store mannequin’s vacant smile. She was a mere shadow of her old self. I recal
led her saying that meeting Lance had been the sorriest day of her life. From her expression, I could see today also ranked high on her list of sorriest days.
“You need anything, anything at all,” Monica said, “all you have to do is ask.”
Rita patted her back. “We’re here for you, honey.”
Claudia swallowed noisily, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“Ladies,” Bad Jack interrupted our little reunion, “if you’ll kindly excuse us, Miz Claudia and I have some unfinished business. I’ll personally escort this fine lady home after all the formalities have been arranged.”
With his hand riding protectively at the small of her back, he steered Claudia out of the courtroom.
Bill stood waiting in the hallway when we emerged. I felt shaken and close to tears by everything that had just transpired. My dear friend was facing a trial and possible imprisonment. I desperately wanted to help, but I wasn’t sure how. I hated feeling useless; powerless.
One look and Bill must’ve sensed I was in need of moral support. Putting his arms around my shoulders, he drew me aside. “There, there, Kate, don’t worry. Things have a way of working out, you’ll see. From all accounts, you found Claudia one of the finest lawyers in the state.”
Sniffling, I burrowed my face into his shoulder, shamelessly exploiting the opportunity. I took a deep breath, inhaled the crisp, clean scent of soap and pine aftershave, and instantly began to feel better. “I know in my heart Claudia would never hurt anyone—much less kill them.”
Bill alternately rubbed and patted in an awkward but endearing attempt to soothe. “The sheriff’s a smart man. He’ll sort things out.”
I pulled away and stared up at him. “Do you really think so? Or are you just trying to make me feel better?”
A lengthy silence ensued. He avoided looking at me, his baby blues fixed on a point somewhere above my head.
“Bill . . . ?”
Finally he gave a sheepish smile. “Guilty as charged.”
“Hush.” I placed a fingertip against his lips. “Guilty isn’t the word to use inside a courthouse.”
Suddenly I felt some of my usual spunk return. The pity party where I reigned as guest of honor came to a screeching halt. I took a half step back and squared my shoulders. At times like these, friends needed friends. No one knew Claudia better than the Babes. If the sheriff couldn’t be depended on to prove her blameless, it was up to us.
I smiled at Bill. “Thanks for lending me your shoulder. I’m feeling much better.”
“Glad I could help.” Bill returned the smile—the one that always made me a little weak in the knees.
“Some of the Babes are going to reconvene at the Cove Café for a strategy session. Care to join us?”
“Me? Alone with all those women?” Bill appeared alarmed at the notion. He began retreating down the hall. “Maybe another time.”
I smiled as I watched him leave. Bill had a bashful streak a mile wide. But that didn’t make him a coward—far from it. When the chips were down, I’d seen him transform himself from shy suitor into a knight in shining armor. Granted, our friendship/relationship may have encountered a temporary setback, but with time and patience, I was certain he’d come around—even if it meant my turning into a brazen hussy.
The Babes and I drove back to Serenity Cove Estates and reconvened at the Cove Café. The lunch rush was over by the time we arrived. We pulled two tables together to form a makeshift conference table. My stomach growled noisily as I was about to sit down, reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything since the blueberry muffin earlier in the day.
Seeing us gather, Vera MacGillicudy brought our usual drinks without our having to ask. Goes to show why she’s the Babes’ favorite. “Anything else, ladies?” she asked. “Y’all need menus?”
My stomach gurgled again, drawing the attention of Pam and Rita sitting on either side of me. I ignored Monica’s disapproving glare and ordered a burger and fries. Before she had a chance to launch into a lecture on fat grams, Pam followed suit. Next, Gloria and Polly agreed to split a chicken quesadilla. Connie Sue ordered her usual fruit plate, and Janine a cup of beef barley soup. Only Rita and Monica insisted they weren’t hungry.
Once Vera headed for the kitchen, we got down to business.
“Exactly what is ‘involuntary manslaughter’?” Pam asked. “Kate, you met with Claudia’s attorney this morning. Did he give you an explanation?”
“BJ said—”
“BJ?” Monica raised a dark brow in a passable imitation of Sheriff Wiggins.
“Badgeley Jack Davenport the Fourth, to be precise. He told me to call him BJ. He said that’s what his friends call him.”
“Hmph,” Monica sniffed. “Seems the two of you are getting along rather well.”
Ignoring her, I assumed my role as professor-at-large with a certain aplomb. “BJ said manslaughter is defined as the unlawful killing of another without malice.”
“Where does the ‘involuntary’ come into play?” Janine squeezed lemon into her iced tea.
I did the same, then added a packet of sweetener. “The ‘involuntary’ has to do with criminal negligence.”
“Which is what, Miss Smarty Pants?” Connie Sue drawled.
“According to BJ, criminal negligence is the reckless disregard of the safety of others.” I was amazed at how much legal jargon I had absorbed in the relatively short period of time I’d spent with BJ Davenport. “He said the prosecution will contend Claudia is responsible for Lance’s death because she showed reckless disregard for his safety by not checking the gun before firing it.”
After a prolonged silence, Pam cleared her throat. “Did Mr. Davenport happen to mention what the sentence usually is for involuntary manslaughter?”
I took a sip of iced tea, marveling that it slid past a lump in my throat that felt the size of a watermelon. “No more than five years.”
Rita toyed with the handle of her coffee cup. “Could be worse if the charge were murder. South Carolina has the death penalty.”
I don’t know about the rest of the Babes, but I suddenly lost my appetite. The thought of a burger and fries made my stomach twist into a knot.
“Was Diane able to contact either of Claudia’s sons?” Gloria asked.
“Diane said they both wanted to come.” Pam fiddled with the wrapper from her straw, first pleating, then smoothing it. “Claudia told them to stay put. She insists there’s nothing they could do.”
“Y’all,” Connie Sue said, fluffing her perfect honey blond bob, “I think Claudia’s too proud to let her babies see her like this.”
“But what about when this comes to trial?” Gloria asked. “She’ll need the support of her family.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “In the meantime, I want each and every one of you to think of a way to help Claudia through this.”
I was only too happy when our food arrived and talk veered away from Claudia.
“How are things working out with your houseguest?” Polly asked, tucking into her quesadilla.
“Fine,” I said, nibbling a fry though no longer really hungry. “She spends most of her time sleeping—that is, when she’s not throwing up.”
“Don’t tell me Krystal’s pregnant?” Monica looked shocked at the notion.
“Bingo!” Or, in this case, should I have said bunco?
Connie Sue speared a chunk of melon. “What about the baby’s daddy? He in the picture?”
“She hasn’t said a word, and I haven’t asked.” I took a tentative bite of my burger. I glanced across the table and noticed Janine hadn’t touched her soup. “You’re awfully quiet, Janine. What’s wrong?”
“Other than Claudia, you mean?” She gave a humorless laugh. “Don’t mind me. I’m just a little preoccupied wondering what will become of the Humane Society’s plans for a new shelter. I really hated to be the bearer of bad news when the play was canceled. The members were so disappointed.”
I idly stirred my tea. “What ever happened to the old adage, ‘The show must go on’?”
Lunch forgotten, the women stared at me as if I’d suddenly sprouted wings.
Janine was the first to recover. “The show could go on!” she exclaimed, more animated than I’d seen her in days. “We could pull it off. I know we could.”
“You bet!” Rita leaned forward, eager to reclaim her job as stage manager. “How hard can it be?”
Now I was the one who stared. “I was kidding, ladies. I didn’t expect to be taken seriously. We don’t know the first thing about putting on a play. That was Lance’s job, remember?”
Gloria ignored my outburst. “Who would we get to replace Lance? He wasn’t only the star, but the director.”
“I don’t think Claudia’s keen on returning to the stage.” Polly added a dollop of sour cream to her last bite of quesadilla. “What if the sheriff hauls her off on opening night? We’ll be in a worse fix than we are now.”
“So we’ll hold an audition,” Pam said, warming to the notion. “We’ll find a replacement for both leads. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. My BFF siding with the enemy? Wait ’til I got her alone. “Who’ll direct?” I asked, hoping to sprinkle reality dust over this harebrained idea.
Connie Sue thoughtfully munched a grape. “The director ought to be someone already familiar with the play. That would make things a whole lot simpler.”
Polly blotted her lips with a napkin. “I’m willing to give it a shot.”
“But, Mother,” Gloria protested, jumping in to make the save, “we need you in charge of costumes.”
