Snakebit

by Linsey Lanier

  A woman who looked to be in her seventies held back a large black lab by the collar. “I’m so sorry,” she said through the screen door. “I didn’t hear the bell.”

  No wonder. Snappy country music rang out from somewhere, making a jarring blend with the lab’s barking.

  “Hold on there. Just a minute.” She began to drag the dog away by the collar, wagging a finger in his face. “Now if you can’t be a gentleman and behave yourself, you have to go outside.”

  The pair disappeared for a moment. The music stopped and then came the sound of a back door being pulled shut. Then footsteps, and the woman reappeared.

  Short and a little overweight, she was dressed in rose-colored culottes and a flowery casual top. White floppy sandals were on her feet, exposing pink-painted toes. She had bright blue eyes, and her short white curls were carefully combed in the style women of her age seemed to prefer.

  She patted the curls gently, with the warm smile of genuine Southern hospitality. “Now then. Have you brought my order? I hope Elizabeth isn’t sick or anything like that.”

  Wesson frowned. “Elizabeth?”

  The woman looked crestfallen. “You don’t have my order?”

  “Which order would that be?” Miranda asked, thinking about an elderly woman she’d heard about on the news, who dealt drugs out of her suburban house.

  The neighbor squinted at her, then at Wesson. “You’re not with Mary Kay? Elizabeth said she’d drop off my order today. I thought she might have sent you instead.”

  Oh, brother. “No, ma’am. We’re not with Mary Kay. We’re with the Parker Investigative Agency.”

  The woman slapped a hand against her breast. “My stars. Has there been another murder?”

  “What murder are you talking about?”

  She pointed over Miranda’s shoulder. “Why the one that happened across the street ten years ago. I heard on the news this morning that Dr. Boudreaux is scheduled for execution next week.”

  At least they wouldn’t have to jog her memory. “That’s exactly why we’re here, Mrs. Fairchild, is it?”

  “Yes, that’s my name. You can call me Spring. That’s my given name. I was born in April, but my sister was already named April, though she was born in December. My mother liked the spring names, you see.”

  A talker with a memory. Maybe she’d change her story about the car. “Mrs. Fairchild—Spring—I’m wondering if we could speak to you about the Boudreaux case.”

  “Why certainly. I’d be happy to tell you anything, though I talked to the police back then, and to a very handsome young detective.” She sucked in a breath and pointed a finger at Miranda. “You’re Miranda Steele, aren’t you? You and your husband solved that dreadful serial murder case down in Jasper County last month, didn’t you?”

  “That’s me.”

  She put a hand to her cheek. “Oh, my stars, now look at my manners. Why don’t you come in. Both of you. Here now.”

  She unlatched the screen door and opened it wide. With Wesson behind her, Miranda stepped into a large open living area with caramel colored hardwood floors, homey country style furnishings and plantation shutters on the many windows. A white-banistered staircase led somewhere up above.

  Spring Fairchild shut the door and hurried into the room. She began to fluff a pillow on the sofa, then stopped, her eyes growing wide.

  “Oh, my. I’ve left something on the stove. Come along now, both of you.” And she minced across the room through an open doorway.

  “Patience, Steele,” Wesson warned over her shoulder as they followed her down a short hall and into a spacious kitchen.

  The large room was open and as friendly as its owner. White beadboard cabinets and sparkling countertops were accented with colorful flower-and-fruit designs that seemed to be sprinkled everywhere. On a row of canisters near the fridge, across a cutting board, on the fanciful curtains, on the plates displayed on the walls.

  And the air was filled with a delicious scent.

  Spring rushed over to the stove, picked up a spoon, and began to stir a large pot. She dipped the spoon into the pot and sniffed. “Thank the Lord it didn’t burn. I’m makin’ my famous Chicken ‘n’ Dumplings recipe. My grandson adores it. He and his wife are coming for supper tonight.”

  Miranda followed Wesson’s gaze to the big red apple clock on the wall. It was after five. “We wouldn’t want to interrupt, but we—”

  “Oh, nonsense. There’s plenty of time. They won’t get here for another hour or so. Especially with the traffic. Now you two go right ahead and have a seat at the island.”

  Miranda’s lips went back and forth, but she gave Wesson a nod and slid into a tall oak stool with a cherry red pad. Wesson took the one across from her.

  Time to steer the woman’s mind back to the past. “I understand you lived here when the incident across the street occurred?” She waved vaguely toward a window that offered a good view of the doctor’s house.

  “Oh, yes. My Andy and I moved in here when we were first married, God rest his soul. I never lived anywhere else since then. I thought about moving back to South Georgia—that’s where I’m from—near Sandersville. All my people are there. But I just got used to living here. It’s a nice neighborhood. Folks are friendly and they don’t complain about Kudzu’s barking.” She chuckled to herself and stirred the pot.

  With answers that lengthy, they might be staying for supper and breakfast tomorrow. “What do you remember about Dr. Clarence Boudreaux?”

  “Oh, he was a nice enough man. Everyone liked him. I did, too, at first. Though I can’t understand how anyone could be so fascinated with snakes. But I always say, to each his or her own. Don’t you think so?”

  “Sure. And what about Dr. Charmaine Boudreaux?”

  “Oh, she was smart, that one. She was conducting some highfalutin research. My son, Andy Jr. used to explain it to me. He was going to Emory at the time. He became a doctor. An orthopedic surgeon. I’m so proud of him.”

  That was new. Maybe the son had a different take on what happened.

  “Was your son here at the time of Charmaine’s death?” Wesson asked, her mind going in the same direction as Miranda’s.

  “Oh, no.” Shaking her silver curls with vigor, Spring opened a cupboard and took out two bowls. “Andy Junior had graduated and was on his own by then. He has his own practice in Cumming. Doesn’t get down to see his ole’ Mama so much. He’s busy. That’s why tonight is such a treat.” She opened a drawer and took out two spoons and a ladle.

  Miranda smiled with patience she didn’t feel. “I understand Charmaine was a busy person, too.”

  Spring gave her concoction a taste. “Needs a bit more salt. Oh, she was,” she said, shaking salt into the pot and giving it another stir. “Both of them were. Most folks around here are. A lot of doctors and nurses and researchers in the neighborhood. Professors, too.” She moved over to the window. “I used to watch them both coming and going from right here.” She pulled back the curtain, and scanned the area around her house, as if she were checking things out now, as well.

  “They parked in the drive?” Miranda asked as if she didn’t know the answer.

  “Yes, always. Never on the street.”

  And the house didn’t have a garage. “You could recognize their vehicles?”

  “Oh, yes. She drove a LeSabre. A four-door sedan. Light blue. He drove a Mercedes, but it was a compact. White. They didn’t seem the type to put on airs.”

  Miranda watched her peer down the block one way, then the other.

  “Sometimes he’d be gone for weeks. She often came home late then. I think they were both workaholics.” She moved back to the stove, picked up one of the bowls, and ladled her handiwork into it.

  Might as well cut to the chase. “How did you find out about what happened across the street, Mrs. Fairchild?”

  “Now, I said to call me Spring.” She filled the second bowl, brought both of them over to the island, and set them down before Miranda and Wess
on.

  Miranda looked down at the thick liquid. “You didn’t have to do that—Spring.”

  “Why what kind of hostess lets her guests go hungry? Go on. Taste it.” She handed them both spoons.

  They weren’t guests. But watching Wesson suppress a smile as she dipped her spoon into her bowl, Miranda gave into the persistent woman and took a taste.

  It was even better than it smelled. Juicy chicken pieces in a thick broth, swimming with dumplings that were more like thick noodles. She could feel the pounds creeping up on her butt already. She’d have to get herself and Wesson into the gym soon.

  “Good, isn’t it? If I do say so myself.”

  “This is wonderful,” Wesson sighed, going for another mouthful. She must be hungry.

  Miranda gave Wesson a frown and put down her spoon. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Oh, no I didn’t.” She pulled out a third stool and sat at the far edge of the table. “It was a terrible thing that happened over there that night. Everything seemed normal that day. Then around nine o’clock the sirens started going off, makin’ a whale of a commotion. I looked outside and saw the police were there. So I pulled on my housecoat and went over.”

  “You spoke to the police?”

  “I did, but I couldn’t tell them anything. And then later I remembered seeing the doctor’s Mercedes in the driveway. It was hours before the sirens, so I wondered, you know, what he’d been doin’ all that time.”

  There it was. The damming evidence. Along with the doctor’s DNA. “Are you absolutely sure of what you saw, Spring?”

  “You know, your husband asked me the same thing. Several different ways. But just like I told him, I remember it clear as a bell.”

  “Tell us what you remember.”

  “Well, I’d seen that both the doctors had been gone for a few days. And then that Sunday afternoon Viceroy—that was Kudzu’s daddy—started putting up a big fuss. Barking and yowling and carrying on. I peeked out the window and saw Dr. Clarence’s Mercedes sitting in the driveway. Plain as the noon day sun. It was right there, next to Dr. Charmaine’s blue LeSabre. She must have come home, too, I thought. They’d both been away for a while.”

  “And what time was it when you saw both cars in the driveway?”

  “It four o’clock,” she said with a firm nod.

  Miranda stirred the chicken broth in her bowl. “It was ten years ago. Are you sure?”

  Eyes wide she pressed a hand to her chest. “Of course, I’m sure. I wouldn’t say it if I weren’t.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  Spring Fairchild stared at Miranda as if she were hard of hearing. “Why, that was when Martha Stewart came on TV. She was doing lamb shanks with okra that day and I missed it because I couldn’t get Viceroy to hush. I used to watch her every Sunday afternoon at that time.”

  Miranda felt the dumplings go hard in her stomach. Dr. Boudreaux had lied to her that morning. And he’d been convincing.

  “I wasn’t surprised when he was convicted of killing that sweet researcher.”

  “Oh? I thought you said you liked him.”

  “I said I liked him at first. But then they started arguing a lot. I used to watch them from over there while I was cooking.” She gestured toward the window.

  The dumplings were turning to cement. “Did they argue a lot?”

  “A month or so before it happened, yes. I even heard him yelling at her a few times.”

  Surprised, Miranda glanced at Wesson. “Any idea what they were arguing about?”

  Spring scoffed and ran a hand over her curls. “Well, I didn’t want to be nosy. Actually, I couldn’t hear them, but I imagined it was about his being away so much.”

  At the moment Miranda wished Spring had been just a little nosier. She pushed away from the island and got to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Spring.”

  “Don’t mention it. You can stay for supper, if you like. The more, the merrier, I always say.”

  A strange thought from a widow who lived alone and couldn’t get her son to visit often. There was sadness behind the smile in her eyes.

  “Thanks, but we need to get back to the office.”

  Spring walked them back to the front door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  “All we’re after is the truth.”

  “That’s what I told you. And what I said at the trial. After all, I swore to it.” Her bright blue eyes were as earnest as a Boy Scout’s oath.

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you again.” She started to go.

  “Oh, Ms. Steele.”

  “Yes?”

  “Say ‘hey’ to that handsome husband of yours.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “I hate to sound like a wet blanket, but what we just heard doesn’t sound good for our client.”

  Miranda watched Wesson’s classy high heels navigate the uneven sidewalk in front of her. “No, it doesn’t. I know this is crazy. The case is closed. But if there’s something we can find to explain all the evidence…” her voice drifted off.

  She came to a halt, shoved her hands in her pockets, and glanced around at the remaining houses in the area.

  “Okay, Steele. What’s your theory?”

  “My theory?”

  “About what really happened.”

  Miranda let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t have one.” Except the one that proved Clarence guilty.

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah.” If Parker weren’t so convinced Clarence was innocent, if she didn’t respect his opinion so much, if she didn’t love him so much, she’d call this whole thing off and go home.

  Instead she said, “We’ve got more people on our list to talk to. Let’s just get the job done.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Her stomach feeling like lead, Miranda led Wesson to house after house, asking the same questions, getting the same answers. All of them thought the Drs. Boudreaux were fine professionals, a loving couple, without a care in the world. All of them had been shocked when he was arrested for his wife’s murder. None of them had any idea why he would have done it. Most said they didn’t believe he did until the evidence proved it.

  By the time Miranda and Wesson got back into the car, it was dark.

  Miranda pulled out into the main street, feeling empty. All they’d done was confirm the facts. It seemed like a waste of time.

  “Are we meeting Curt and Dave back at the office?” Wesson said in a voice that matched the dreary mood.

  Darn. She’d forgotten she’d arranged a meeting for tonight. “Why don’t you get them on the phone and see if they’ve done any better.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Wesson scrolled to the number.

  Becker answered on the first ring. “Hi, Steele.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not so good. We’ve talked to a lot of people at the research lab where Dr. Charmaine Boudreaux worked, but they all say basically the same thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “She was very smart, well-liked, generally a nice person. No idea why her husband would kill her, but nobody had any evidence to exonerate him. Tell me you’ve done better.”

  Miranda blew out a breath. “Can’t do that.”

  “Bummer.”

  There was murmuring in the background. “Oh, Curt wants to know if there’s time to stop for dinner before the meeting.”

  Miranda chewed her lip. It wouldn’t do any good to sit around rehashing the lack of evidence for an appeal. Besides, they were all at a disadvantage because they didn’t know the details of the case well enough.

  “The meeting’s canceled,” she told him. “Everybody go home and read through the entire file. Look for any discrepancy you can find.”

  “Aye, aye, Steele. Oh, and Fry hasn’t seen anything from the police department.”

  “The DNA sample, you mean?”

  “Right. Nothing’s shown up.”

  That darned Chambers. “I’ll see what I can do about that
tomorrow. Just get your reading done and I’ll call with assignments in the morning.” Once she’d gone through the file, she’d have a better idea of where to focus the team.

  “Okay. Fry’s coming over to watch more A-Team with the kids. Charlie’s really looking forward to it. But I’ll make sure we both go through everything in the file.”

  Fry was going to be at Becker and Fanuzzi’s house? She wasn’t sure what to make of that blossoming friendship. “Make sure he doesn’t goof off.”

  “He wouldn’t do that. Don’t worry, Steele. We’ll do better tomorrow. After all, we’re your A-Team. ‘If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them’.”

  “Good night, Becker.”

  “Good night,” he said in a sheepish voice.

  She hung up and drove the rest of the way to the Parker Agency in silence.

  Feeling weary, she pulled into a spot next to Wesson’s car. “Thanks for your help today.”

  “No problem. I’ll send my notes over to your email.”

  “Thanks.”

  Wesson gathered up her papers. “I’m going to grab a sandwich and dig into this file. Becker’s right. If there’s something there, we’ll find it, Steele. We’re not the A-Team, we’re Mr. Parker’s Dream Team, right?”

  “Something like that. Be sure to check the time of the Martha Stewart show that year. The one Spring Fairchild mentioned?”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow with the agenda.”

  “Good-night.” She got out of the car and sashayed over to her door.

  Wesson was turning out to be a real support. What a surprise. She never would have guessed that when she was beating her in the ring when they were IITs.

  She looked down at her phone and saw she’d missed a message from Parker. He’d headed home over an hour ago.

  Good, she thought, turning out of the parking lot and heading for downtown. She longed for his arms around her. Tonight she’d snuggle up somewhere in the penthouse and go through her own copy of the file.

  Becker and Wesson were right. They’d find something. They had to.

  Chapter Thirteen