Tippy Toe Murder (14 page)

“I need a note, too, Mom,” reminded
Elizabeth. “The ballet rehearsal is right after school.”

Lucy opened Toby’s notebook to tear out
another piece of paper and discovered an overdue book notice.

“What’s this, Toby? This book was due in
March.”

“I think I lost it.”

“You better find it. It says here they won’t
promote you unless it’s returned.”

“Honest, Mom. I’ve looked everywhere.” He
believed it, too, thought Lucy, studying his earnest expression.

“Oh, well, we’ll look for it later. You
guys better hurry or you’ll miss the bus.”

The two older kids clattered off, and Bill
sat down at the table opposite Lucy.

“Don’t forget,” said Lucy, pouring a cup of
coffee for him. “It’s Tuesday. Little League tonight.”

“Mmmph,” he nodded, his mouth full. A
trickle of egg yolk dribbled down his chin and caught in his beard.

Lucy turned to Sara, only to discover she
was attempting to blow milk bubbles.

“Why did I ever get married?” muttered Lucy,
thinking of Tatiana’s exquisitely neat apartment.

“You wouldn’t have it any other way and you
know it,” said Bill, dabbing his chin with a napkin. “Besides, we need you. You’re
the only one who can keep the schedule straight.” “Today’s Franny’s arraignment.”

“Are you going?”

“I think I should,” said Lucy. “Just to
give Franny a little moral support.” Her tone was defensive, but Bill didn’t
seem to notice.

“There’s a new video store just opened up
over in Wilton. Why don’t you take a look at the camcorders? Barney says we won’t
have ours back for a long time.”

“I know.” Lucy sighed. “We can’t afford one
right now.” “Maybe our insurance will cover it. I saw Fred Slack yesterday and
he said something about it.”

“That sounds too good to be true.”

“Why? We pay a hefty premium every year and
we’ve never filed a claim. Might as well try. What’s Sara going to do while you’re
in court?”

“Kiddie Kollege, then she’s going to Jenn’s
house.”

“Well, I better get a move on,” said Bill,
draining his cup. He bent down and gave Lucy a quick kiss. His beard tickled,
and Lucy smiled.

“You’re a good man, Bill Stone,” she said,
slipping her hand around his neck and pulling his face toward hers.

“Stop that kissing,” shrieked Sara. “You’ll
get germs.”

Lucy laughed. “I said not to kiss
dogs
because you’ll get germs. It’s okay to kiss Daddy.”

“Oh.” Sara hopped down from her chair and
ran to present her cheek for a kiss. Bill bent down and gave her a quick peck,
grabbed his lunch, and was out the door.

When she walked into the courtroom an hour
later, Lucy didn’t know what to expect. She looked around for familiar faces,
but the only people she recognized were Ted Stillings and Franny’s mother. Lucy
would have preferred to sit by Ted, who was covering the case for the
Pennysaver,
but felt she really ought to sit with Irma. She looked so lonely, sitting there
all by herself, clutching her tan vinyl purse.

“How’s it going?” asked Lucy, slipping in
beside her.

“Lucy Stone, bless you,” said Irma,
clasping Lucy’s hand and squeezing it. “They haven’t started yet, they’re still
doing some sort of roll call. That man”—she indicated the court clerk, seated
at a desk just below the judge’s bench—”calls the cases and the lawyers tell
him if they’re ready. That’s Franny’s lawyer over there.”

Lucy followed Irma’s finger and stared at
Philip Roderick. He was sitting back comfortably in one of the armchairs
provided for the lawyers, his long legs crossed at the knee and a thick
briefcase resting beside him. He looked different from the other lawyers, who
were joking among themselves. His suit, black with a faint gray stripe, was
better cut. His shirt was whiter. He was almost obsessively well groomed, Lucy
observed. His olive skin was flawless, his thick black hair was brushed
smoothly back, and his nails were manicured. A gold Rolex, his only jewelry
apart from a heavy wedding ring, flashed at his wrist. Philip Roderick exuded
confidence; Lucy was glad he was defending her friend and not prosecuting her.

“All rise,” announced the bailiff. “Court
is now in session, Judge Joyce Ryerson presiding.”

Seeing the judge, a fiftyish woman with
neatly coiffed gray hair, Lucy felt like celebrating. She nudged Irma with her
elbow and smiled encouragingly.

“The State of Maine versus Frances Mary
Small,” called the bailiff.

A door, almost concealed by the matching
paneling, opened, and Franny appeared in handcuffs, accompanied by a uniformed
matron. The officer showed Franny where to sit and then stood behind her.
Franny looked very tiny and frightened, and Lucy’s heart went out to her.

“How does the defendant plead?” asked the
clerk.

“Not guilty,” announced Roderick in ringing
tones.

“So noted,” replied the clerk. “Trial is
set for September twenty-ninth at ten
a.m.”

“My client requests release on her own
recognizance, pending trial,” said Roderick. “She has lived in this community
for virtually all her life. She has deep ties here, and her mother also lives
in Tinker’s Cove.”

“The prosecution objects,” said Holmes, the
assistant DA. In contrast to Roderick he looked rather shabby in a rumpled
seersucker suit. “The defendant has a history of violence, and we believe the
public would best be served if she remains in custody.”

He gave the clerk a thick file folder,
which was passed along to the judge. The judge began leafing through the folder
while Holmes continued his argument.

“The state is also requesting a complete
psychiatric examination of the defendant, in light of the extreme violence of
the crime with which she is charged. This was an attack upon a frail and
elderly gentleman which resulted in his death.”

The judge looked up from the folder and
glanced at Roderick.

“Your Honor, if the court wishes, my client
is willing to post bail. However, Frances Mary Small is not guilty, as I will
prove beyond any reasonable doubt. The case against her is little more than a
collection of hearsay evidence and coincidence. There is simply not enough
evidence against her to justify holding her without bail, much less subjecting
her to invasive psychiatric tests.”

Roderick delivered his statement smoothly,
with great conviction. Lucy was impressed.

“Your Honor,” drawled Holmes. “The state
respectfully disagrees with my learned colleague. We allege the defendant has shown
herself on two occasions to be capable of violent and destructive behavior. We
believe the public interest, and indeed the defendant’s own interest, are best
served by holding her in the state facility for the criminally insane.”

The judge thoughtfully chewed her lip for a
moment and then came to a decision. “Agreed,” she said, and turned to face
Franny. “Your trial is scheduled for September twenty-ninth. Do you understand?”

Franny nodded.

“Speak up for the record. Say yes or no,”
instructed the judge.

“Yes,” whispered Franny.

“Until then, you will remain in custody, in
the state hospital, where you will undergo psychiatric tests. Do you
understand?” “Yes,” repeated Franny. Her response was barely audible. “Next
case,” said the judge, banging the gavel.

“Just a moment,” said Roderick, “praying
the court’s indulgence. I must object.” His voice and facial expression
remained calm and unruffled, but Lucy noticed he was spasmodically clenching
and unclenching his left hand as he spoke. “I respectfully beg the court to
reconsider this decision. My client is willing to post bail at a considerable
personal sacrifice. There is no court record of past violence and she
represents no threat to her community.”

The judge tapped her polished red nails
impatiently, her eyes flashed, and she appeared to be quite angry. “Request
denied,” she snapped. “I would like to remind the learned counsel for the
defense that this court takes its responsibility to the public very seriously.
I should not need to remind you that the defendant is charged with a violent
crime, a crime that appears to be the result of an emotional outburst. I am not
prepared to risk a recurrence. Twice is enough. That is all. Next case.”

“Your Honor,” insisted Roderick. “Once
again, begging the court’s indulgence, I believe the court’s decision is quite
wrongfully based on hearsay evidence concerning an incident that occurred
fifteen years ago. I must remind the court that Ms. Small has never been
charged with the murder of Darryl Morgan, and unless she is so charged, that
evidence may not properly be considered by the court.”

“I must warn the learned counsel for the
defense that this court’s indulgence has been tested beyond its usual
...”
Here words seemed to fail the judge. “Oh,
whatever. I’m warning you,” she said, glaring at Roderick. “Don’t try this
fancy stuff in my courtroom, Counselor, or you’ll be up on contempt charges.”
She banged the gavel once again, and Roderick went back to his seat. He
replaced a folder in his briefcase, rose, and made his way to the exit. Lucy
jumped up and followed him, catching up to him in the lobby.

“Mr. Roderick,” she called. “Could I speak
to you for a minute? I’m Franny’s friend, Lucy Stone. Isn’t there anything you
can do to get her out? That judge seems to have decided she’s guilty without
even trying her.”

Roderick turned and smiled at her. His eyes
crinkled nicely at the corners. “I noticed that, too. Her Honor could use a
refresher course in the rights of the accused. That’s to be expected in a rural
area like this. Don’t worry about your friend. I’ll just have to try another
tack.” He looked up, acknowledging the presence of Irma and Ted Stillings, who
had his notebook open and his pen ready.

“Do you have any comment about what
happened this morning?” asked Ted.

“Nothing you can print,” answered Roderick
quickly. Then he reconsidered and said, “Just this: Franny Small is innocent
and I won’t give up until she is free and all charges against her have been
dropped.”

“What’s your next move?” asked Ted.

“I’d prefer not to comment just now,” said
Roderick. “I have another case coming up and I need to consult with my clients.”

“Off the record, then,” said Ted, walking
alongside.

Lucy smiled and shook her head. “The news
hound in action,” she said, turning to Irma. She was horrified to see her face
crumple as she burst into tears.

“Please don’t cry,” said Lucy, producing a
tissue. But the older woman was not about to be easily comforted. She began
sobbing loudly.

“Come on,” said Lucy, wrapping an arm about
her heaving shoulders and steering her toward the door.

The lobby was crowded with a new wave of
people, including quite a few teenagers. Juvenile court must be about to go
into session, thought Lucy. Her hunch was confirmed when she spotted Fred and
Annemarie standing anxiously by while Roderick consulted earnestly with Ben.

It was too bad no spectators were permitted
in juvenile court, thought Lucy as she led Irma outside to a park bench. She’d
never liked Franny’s mother, and she resented being saddled with her.

“We’ll just sit here for a minute,” said
Lucy, “while you collect yourself.”

Any hopes Lucy might have had of escape
ended when Irma clutched her hands and began sobbing harder than ever.

“Franny’s in good hands,” began Lucy. “She’s
got a good lawyer, and, well, try to look on the bright side. Maybe she’ll get
the help she needs in the state hospital.”

“What do you mean?” Irma’s tears ceased
abruptly and she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Franny doesn’t need any
help. She’s just fine.”

“She’s not fine,” contradicted Lucy. “She
feels horribly guilty about killing Darryl.”

“She didn’t kill Darryl. He fell down the
stairs.”

“With a little help from Franny. She couldn’t
take any more abuse from him.”

“Where did you hear all these lies?”
demanded Irma. “Franny had a good marriage. Darryl was a real catch. Of course,
I used to worry that she didn’t have quite what it takes to keep a man like
him. He was a lot of man, you know, and Franny’s not much to look at. She was
never popular. I was surprised when he married her, I would have thought he’d
want someone more womanly.”

Lucy’s mouth fell open and she stared at
Irma in disbelief. It was clear she’d worked out her own interpretation of
Franny’s marriage.

“You knew something was wrong,” said Lucy,
determined to break through Irma’s denial of the truth. “Didn’t you wonder
about all those accidents? What did you think when you saw her bruises?”

“Franny’s always been clumsy,” snapped
Irma. Her eyes were round and dark, like tiny, hard berries. “And besides, I
don’t know what I could have done. What went on in their home was between them.
It was private.”