While attractive, Artie couldn’t help but notice that she’d inherited her father’s broad, thick upper body. It dwarfed her head but did set off her tiny waist. The rest of her was lovely, though. Deep green eyes, a bit on the bulbous side, surrounded by thick, dark lashes above high cheekbones and pleasantly rounded cheeks. Her mouth contained the whitest of teeth, framed by deep dimples and a beauty mark to the right of her mouth that would pass for a mole on a less attractive woman.
After exchanging formalities, Missy Green got down to brass tacks. “Here’s the thing. They’ve got your fingerprints all over the gun, along with Enzo’s and your son’s.”
“I ain’t never denied shooting that gun or any other. Heck, I shot at that gopher right before I saw Bobby’s body.”
“I read that in your statement. But the fact is, they have your prints on the gun. They have gunshot residue on your hands. They have Bobby’s blood on your clothes, face and hands, and most importantly, Bobby’s body tied up to a car bumper lying dead in your otherwise locked garage, where you openly admitted to spending the night blitzed out of your mind.”
Artie stared down at his hands, trying to imagine what gunshot residue looked like and how it was detectable under all the blood he’d seen there earlier.
“But why would I try to save him if I’d killed him?”
“They’re going to go with the sirens.”
“The sirens?”
“You woke up, found Bobby’s body, and remembered what you’d done. A moment later, you heard sirens approaching, figured they were coming for you, so you leaned down to pretend you were trying to save him.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Artie said. “Couldn’t have thought that fast if I’d wanted to.”
“Yes,” Missy said, “it would have been fairly clever of you. It would explain any blood on your clothes and skin. Only problem is, it was so obvious he was dead. No one in their right mind would have tried to give him CPR.”
“Well there you go. I wasn’t in my right mind. I’d just woken up feeling worse than I’d ever felt in my life. Like a pack of elephants sitting on my brain. I was blacked out the whole night. Can’t remember a thing.”
“That moonshine you consumed is in the lab now. They’re trying to determine exactly what y’all drank.”
“I wasn’t even supposed to be drinking. I’d taken a few more pills than I should have for my headache. It was poundin’ something awful yesterday.”
“Well, the pills and booze might explain the blackout. I don’t know if we can work that to our advantage at all. Your son seems to be as blank about the evening as you are and we haven’t found Enzo yet. Maybe he’ll give us something to go on.”
“I don’t remember when he left.”
“He stopped to get gas on the way home, around midnight. The night attendant remembers seeing him.”
“Thank God for that,” Artie said, “I don’t need Enzo or Kevin tied up in this mess.”
“That’s the problem, Mr. Fennimore. It’s going to require some serious creativity on my part to come up with an alternative scenario for the jury to believe.”
“But there’s got to be some logical explanation,” Artie said. “There’s just got to be. I know in my heart that even at my drunkest, I wouldn’t shoot nobody in cold blood.”
“The prosecution will undoubtedly mention your random killing of gophers behind the garage. In fact, people who lived over the hill used to call and complain about you shooting that gun in the dark.”
“Shooting a nuisance gopher ain’t nothing like shooting a human being. Ain’t even close to comparable to shooting a teenage boy.”
“But this particular teenage boy had stolen from you, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t hold him in very high regard, did you, Mr. Fennimore?”
“Hey,” Artie said, “thought you were supposed to be on my side.”
Missy sighed. “I’m trying to figure out what happened. And believe me, anything I ask you here will seem like fluff compared to what the prosecution’s going to do to you.”
Artie looked around the room for an answer, but it only hurt his neck. He was sorer and achier than he’d ever been and desperately wanted a hot shower and some strong coffee. “Okay, I didn’t like Bobby. Don’t think you’ll find anyone in town who didn’t know that. But I wasn’t the only one. The kid was a delinquent.”
“You do realize we’re going up against the vast power of Mayor Kettrick in this case?”
“I know. I done punched my ticket on this one.”
“Unless we can come up with another scenario.”
“What about the broken window?” Artie said. “Fred told me the window by the fourth bay was broken in.”
“They think Bobby broke in while you were there alone. You heard him, tied him up, and shot him. Decided to take the law into your own hands.”
“Even if I was gonna take the law into my own hands, I wouldn’t shoot a kid over a few tools. What if two people came in through that window and the second person shot Bobby?”
“You don’t think you would’ve woken up with the gunshot?”
Artie looked at her with more doubt than ever. “Clearly, I didn’t wake up from a gunshot ‘cuz I wasn’t the one who shot him.”
Missy looked humbled.
“And another thing,” Artie said. “How’d I tie him up? I don’t keep no rope in the shop.”
“Not even for towing cars or something?”
“Nope. Use a cable for that.”
“Interesting.”
Missy and Artie batted around a host of scenarios for another half hour.
“Ain’t any of these ideas good enough to create reasonable doubt?” Artie said.
“If we can prove them. I’ll get results on the fibers they pulled off the broken window. Some of Bobby’s clothes caught on there, so they definitely got him coming in the window. If they can find some threads that don’t match his clothing, we might have proof of an unknown accomplice. It could add another suspect. And I’ll make sure they test the garage door button to see if Bobby pressed it to let someone else in.”
“That button’ll be full of grease and dirt from me pushing it over the years.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
They plowed through the details of Artie’s whereabouts for the previous two days. They discussed his family, his typical day, his friends, potential character witnesses, and again, anything he could remember from that night. The latter proved the shortest part of the conversation. When Missy got up to leave, she gave off an air of optimism and seemed to believe in Artie’s innocence.
“Mr. Fennimore, I sure do appreciate the opportunity to work on your case, and I’m going to do everything in my power to see that you get the fairest trial the Lavitte courthouse can offer.”
“Well,” Artie said, “that last part ain’t much of a possibility, I’m afraid, not with Mayor Kettrick on the other side, but I sure do appreciate anything you can do. Oh my goodness, that poor boy.”
They shook hands. As Missy opened the door to leave, she spotted Justine Fennimore waiting to enter. In stark contrast to her husband, Justine looked completely pulled together. Every hair in place, her outfit pressed to within an inch of its life, her shoes shiny, and her expression calm, as if entering a confessional to tell the priest of foul language that had floated through her mind the previous week. She seemed resigned to her penance.
Missy shook her hand and said Mr. Fennimore was waiting for her. Justine nodded slowly, went in, and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 40
Allison… present
I startled awake, surprised I’d slept at all. A feeling of relief washed over me but I couldn’t remember why. Oh yes, because I hadn’t been arrested in the middle of the night for complicity in assaulting an officer or for disturbing those gorgeous wetlands behind The Willows. I threw on some khaki shorts and a black shirt, brushed my teeth, and headed out the door before the law could
come-a-calling. Despite it being Sunday, the hardware store opened early seven days a week and I needed to get my hands on some hydrochloric acid.
After a five-minute search through somewhat disorganized shelves, I found the acid and headed to the register. Mr. Whitlock, the decrepit man who’d run the hardware store since Jesus came in to buy 2x4’s, glared at my purchase as if I’d brought rope to the register and mentioned how perfect it was for tying up little children.
“Muriatic acid, Allison?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Same thing as hydrochloric acid. If you could ring it up, I’d appreciate it.”
He harrumphed the way 300-year-olds do at anything that offends them, which is most everything. “I know what it is. Been selling it to the chemistry teacher for longer than you’ve been alive.”
“I’m sure you have,” I said, hoping to generate another harrumph. “So if you could just ring it up…”
“Can’t imagine what you need it for,” he said. “You know we keep track of all our sales.”
“Really?” I said. “In that case, can I get a ski mask, some bullets, and a map of the all the rich people’s houses?”
He narrowed ancient eyes that were already obscured by low-hanging eyelids. “Why don’t you march right on out of here, young lady? I don’t need business from a Fennimore anyway.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Whitlock, either you sell me this hydrochloric acid or I call the Better Business Bureau and tell them about the shelves that you have stacked dangerously high in here with no bracing to the walls, and about the display of knives you keep right over the door where they could fall on customers’ heads as they enter. Then I’ll call the Health Department and mention the fleas that are jumping around on your hound like he’s a trampoline while he naps right next to your greasy hot dog machine.”
Mr. Whitlock supplied that second harrumph and rang up my purchase. He took my money and mumbled damn Fennimores under his breath while doing it. I took my bag, wished him a lovely day, and slammed the door extra hard on my way out, hoping to dislodge one of his stupid knives. Normally, I would have wanted my purchase to go unnoticed, but at this point, really, who could Mr. Whitlock sic on me who wasn’t already on my ass?
Walking to my car, I saw a woman who looked like she’d slept in her clothes exiting a narrow office across the street. It was built into the space of a wide alley where I used to ride my bike. She waved to whoever was inside and went on her way, more of a spring in her step than one would expect from her appearance. Above the door, I spotted a small placard: Missy Green, Attorney at Law. Why hadn’t I thought to dig for Missy Green this whole time? I’d completely overlooked that piece of the puzzle.
Glancing at my sorry outfit, I figured I didn’t look any worse than the woman who’d just left, so on impulse, I ventured over. I opened the green door, setting off a low-toned, automatic chime, and found myself in a tastefully furnished waiting area that smelled of fresh coffee and roses, a vase of which sat atop an unoccupied receptionist’s desk.
“Did you forget something, Mrs. Carter?” said a pleasant voice with a warm drawl. From one of the two offices in the back emerged a forty-something woman with a round, expressive face and a steaming cup of joe. She wore red Capri pants tied at the waist and a capped-sleeve beige blouse. Aside from deep smile lines and a little more padding in the breasts and abdomen, Missy Green looked the same. As she tried to place my face, she approached with wide, questioning eyes. “Allison? Allison Fennimore?”
“Hi, Missy.”
Her hand was warm and soft as I shook it.
“My goodness,” she said, unable to keep from staring, “you look a lot like your daddy.”
“I’m sorry to intrude on you like this.”
“Not at all. I only work a few days a week and I come in on Sundays to catch up on paperwork. Turns out a client needed me anyway. Domestic disputes can get pretty hairy.”
“Not doing criminal law anymore?
“Goodness no. I lasted a couple years after your dad’s case and then I stayed home to raise my kids. I would have gone back, but by then, I’d seen how things worked in Lavitte. It wasn’t a way I could work.”
“How’s that?” I asked, knowing the answer, but interested in her perspective.
“Crooked, fixed, rigged. Good ol’ boys against the little guy.”
“My poor dad, only five-foot-eight on a good day.” It was the lamest of jokes but I hoped it would set her at ease.
She showed me into her office. It contained the requisite pictures of two teenage girls, both of whom had inherited Missy’s muscular shoulders but also her lustrous hair and straight teeth to balance the effect. She poured me some coffee and sat next to me, rather than across, like we were two girlfriends catching up.
“Heard you moved to New York,” she said. “Gotta be quite a change of pace from Lavitte.”
“A welcome change. I moved there right after the case.”
For a moment, she looked conflicted. It was the subtlest of nose scrunches, but a face as open as hers couldn’t hide much. Not the best quality in a lawyer. “You know, I still think about what happened that night at your dad’s garage.”
“You’re not alone.”
“The first time I met him, it was right after he was arrested. He was hurtin’ and tired and more confused than a polar bear in a Texas zoo, but he wanted to try. Seemed more certain than anyone in his position had a right to be that he didn’t do it. Said he’d seen the worst he could do, and—is it okay if I talk about this?”
“I’d be upset if you didn’t,” I said.
“Said he’d shown his worst traits to his wife and that he’d been working hard to clean up his act. Been seeing a therapist and everything. That old Doc Baker down on Elm.”
News to me, but finally, an overturned stone that didn’t reveal a dismal secret. A lump formed in my throat. Typical of the Fennimores. You clean up your act, you end up dirtier than you started.
Missy continued, eager to unburden herself. “Your dad and I tossed around some scenarios but we couldn’t find any supporting evidence or name another reasonable suspect. And nobody saw Bobby Kettrick that night. You can’t imagine the time I had getting people to say anything at all about that boy. They’d clam up tighter than virgins at a biker bar.”
“Because Bobby was the victim for once,” I said. “Nobody likes to dish dirt on the guy that lost.”
“Maybe. I don’t know everything that went on and I sure didn’t know the inner workings of the town back then. Anyway, it was weird. Your dad seemed hopeful when I left, but when I came back the next day,”—she stopped and shook her head while setting her mug on the desk—“he was a different person.”
“How so?”
“Almost accepting of his fate.”
The same impression Detective Barkley had gotten in court.
“Did someone get to him between the two times you saw him?” I asked. “The mayor or one of his henchmen?”
“I thought about that. Even checked the records. Now granted, it may have been one of the local policemen who were there the whole time, or someone who avoided signing in, but other than your mom, no one official came to see him. Of course, when they found Shelby’s body two weeks later and linked your dad to that crime, the whole aura changed. Shelby’s death resonated pretty strongly with the community, like people could accept a fatal grudge match between two men, even if one of ‘em was a teenager, but no way they’d tolerate the murder of a little girl stolen right off her bicycle. It tainted everything against your dad.”
“I know you talked to Bobby’s friends, Jasper Shifflett and John Smith. Did you get the sense they were telling the truth?”
She sighed. “Allison, I didn’t get the feeling anyone was telling the truth in that case. But I wrote it off to my being inexperienced and naive.” Her face looked pained. “I wished I’d trusted my gut more. It’s proved pretty reliable over the years.”
Missy’s phone rang. She glanced
at the Caller ID and said, “I’ve got to take that, but we can talk more. You want to wait in the lobby?”
I shook my head. “No thanks, Missy, I’ve got to go. But I’ll tell you one thing. I think your gut was right.”
I headed out and returned home to find my mother padding about the kitchen. “Allison, where have you been? How was the reunion?” She filled the last word with more judgment than Mr. Whitlock telling Jesus he’d bought the wrong size nails.
Ignoring the first part of her question, I hoped she wouldn’t notice the hardware store bag in my hand. “The reunion was fine. Ran into Smitty again. He was delighted to see me, as you can imagine.”
“I don’t know why you keep antagonizing that boy.”
“They showed this bizarre slide show last night.”
“I don’t want to hear about it.”
“I was just gonna say, do you remember the old Hester barn that burned down?”
“Vaguely,” she said.
“They showed a picture of it last night. Pretty new when it burned down, right?”
“Yes. Those Hesters weren’t good people. Spent well beyond their means and who knew where they got their money. Why?”
“Smitty looked upset when they showed that slide. Wondered if something happened there.”
She slammed down the bowl in her hands and pulled an angry face. “The Anderson girl’s body was found not too far from there, Allison. In Licking Dog Creek. We both know it. Are you trying to imply that Smitty had something to do with it? You don’t have to pussyfoot around me like I’m some brain-addled idiot.”
“Okay, fine,” I said, fully entering the kitchen and not giving a hoot if she saw the hardware store bag anymore. “What the hell happened to Shelby Anderson, then? We both know Dad didn’t have anything to do with that, don’t we?” I sounded more desperate than I’d intended, but it had been a conversation-in-waiting for sixteen years.
She looked out the kitchen window, her head tilting up and her brows shooting high. An old trick to keep tears at bay, for at least a moment or two. “The rope always bothered me,” she said. “Same rope on Shelby as Bobby. But who knows? You think I haven’t spent years of my life trying to fill in the blanks of what happened? You think doubt doesn’t creep in and I don’t wonder if your dad was some pervert who kidnapped and killed a little girl?” She spun towards me, having lost the battle with the tears. Her hands clutched the bowl for dear life. “I’ve even questioned the times I left you alone with him. And until this very moment, I’ve never had the nerve to ask you if he ever tried anything with you. It eats away at me and claws at my insides until I can barely stand up straight. So did he, Allison? Did he ever try anything with you?”
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