A Deadly Judgment (20 page)

The shop had just opened when I arrived, and a distinguished looking gentleman asked if I needed help.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m looking for a pair of scissors, and tweezers as a gift for a friend.”

“I’m sure we have what you want,” he said, opening the back of a glass-topped counter and removing a pair of scissors.

I examined them, paying particular attention to the engraved manufacturer’s name. I handed them back. “Actually,” I said, “I wanted to buy LeClaire scissors and tweezers.”

He made a face as though a mildly unpleasant odor had been released.

“Do you carry them?” I asked.

“No, we don’t. They aren’t up to our standards.”

“Really? I thought they were of especially high quality.”

“I’m afraid not. LeClaire has always produced inferior scissors. Low-end. And lately—well, that doesn’t help you make a purchase.”

“You started to say.”

“LeClaire is about to go out of business. At least that’s what I hear. If you insist upon buying their scissors and tweezers, I suggest you check out—”

“No, I’m not committed to their products. I must have been misinformed about them. I’ll be back after I do some other shopping. Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure, madam.”

The second shop was on Newbury Street, and was considerably larger than the one in Copley Place. A young woman helped me.

“Do you carry LeClaire scissors?” I asked.

“No. We haven’t in more than a year.”

“Oh. I was interested in buying a pair.”

“Sorry, but we can’t help you. I’m not even sure they still make them.”

“That’s interesting,” I said.

“Is LeClaire even in business?” she asked a colleague.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“Well, thank you very much,” I said.

“We have a wonderful selection of scissors,” she said.

“Yes, I can certainly see that. I’ll be back.”

Obviously, LeClaire Metals was not what you’d term a going business. Going out of business, maybe.

But its owner had given Cynthia Warren a check for ten thousand dollars the day before her murder.

And Harry LeClaire was, according to Ritchie Fleigler, an inveterate gambler, who’d suffered large losses. Which could explain, of course, why his business was failing.

I intended to return to the courthouse before the morning session broke because I wanted to tell Malcolm that a second alternate juror, Thomas McEnroe, had what appeared to be a previous relationship with Cynthia Warren, and that Harry LeClaire not only gave Ms. Warren money the day before she died, but he knew Gina Simone, too. What Malcolm would do with the information was conjecture on my part. But he had to know.

I had an hour before returning to the court, and decided to run back to the hotel where I’d left the Gina Simone file of clippings. I’d meant to read it earlier, and to return it to Malcolm’s office, as I’d promised Linda I would. I’d failed on both counts.

I’d no sooner stepped out of the Chevy in front of the Ritz-Carlton that I heard someone call “Jessica.” Seth Hazlitt had just paid his taxi driver and was instructing a uniformed bellhop what to do with his luggage.

We hugged.

“What good timing,” Seth said, grinning. “I thought you’d probably be sitting in that musty old courtroom all day.”

“Not today,” I said. “But I do have to get over there before the noon recess. There’s something I have to talk to Malcolm McLoon about.”

“How is the bigger-than-life counselor?”

“Fine. I have to get something from my room. Come with me.”

When I opened the door to allow him to enter, he laughed and said, “‘Room’ you call it? It’s a princely suite.”

“I know. Compliments of Malcolm.”

I found the file and shoved it into my briefcase. “Are you going to Filene’s now?” I asked.

“Maybe later. Sale’s on for two days. Since I caught up with you so easy, Jessica, how about my accompanying you to court, see what you’ve been up to since comin’ to Boston?”

“I’d love that, Seth, but I won’t be able to stay with you all the time. I have to meet with Malcolm about something important. He suggested lunch together. I’m sure you’re welcome to join us.”

“Wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said.

“And you wouldn’t be. Come on. I can’t be late. I have a car at my disposal.”

“Also courtesy of the great McLoon?”

“Seth, I have the distinct impression that you dislike him.”

“But you’ve never met him.”

“I know enough about him from what I’ve read, and seen on the television. Let’s go. Can’t wait to make his acquaintance in the flesh.”

We arrived only minutes before Judge Wilson called the noon recess. As Seth and I walked into the courthouse, Malcolm came through the swinging doors leading to the courtroom, followed by Rachel Cohen, Georgia Bobley, Jill Farkas, and Ritchie Fleigler. Judging from their expressions, things hadn’t gone well.

“Malcolm,” I said. “This is my friend, Dr. Seth Hazlitt, from Cabot Cove.”

Malcolm stopped, scowled at Seth, and muttered, “Excuse me.”

Seth and I fell in behind the entourage. “What’s happened?” I asked Georgia.

“Judge Wilson ruled the letter could be introduced by the DA. They had a police department handwriting expert examine it, too. He agrees with our expert. Cynthia Warren wrote the letter. Or at least signed it.”

“Where are we going?” I asked anyone who would listen.

“Malcolm wants lunch at Clarke’s,” Rachel said.

Malcolm’s limo, and the Chevy driven by Cathie were at the curb. We all waited for Malcolm’s next move.

 

“Maybe I’ll just go on to Filene’s,” Seth said to me.

With that, Malcolm placed his hand on Seth’s back and virtually pushed him into the limousine’s backseat. Rachel and Georgia followed, and Malcolm squeezed his bulk into the front seat beside the driver. That left Jill Farkas, Ritchie Fleigler, and me on the sidewalk.

“Clarke’s,” Malcolm said through the open window. He told his driver to go.

I went to the Chevy. “Do you know where Clarke’s is?” I asked Cathie.

“Sure. Everybody knows Clarke’s.”

“That’s where we’re going,” I said, holding open the door for Jill and Ritchie.

Clarke’s, according to Cathie, was one of the city’s most popular saloons. Her use of that descriptive word caused my stomach to knot. Was Malcolm about to go on a binge in the middle of the day?

“Is court in session this afternoon?” I asked Jill Farkas.

“No. Judge Wilson has a toothache. He’s seeing a dentist this afternoon.”

My stomach flip-flopped again. Poor Seth, captive in a limousine with a man for whom his dislike was palpable. He should have gone to Filene’s.

We walked into a crowded Clarke’s and found Malcolm and the others at a large table in the bar area. I couldn’t help but smile at seeing Seth, who was at Malcolm’s right. He sat ramrod straight, his eyes focused straight ahead, a man about to be given his last meal before the execution.

“Jessica, sit here,” Malcolm commanded, indicating an empty chair to his left. I took it, leaned across him, and asked, “How are you holding up, Seth?”

“Fair to middlin’.”

“Your doctor friend doesn’t say much,” Malcolm said as a waitress took our drink orders.

“He’s a man of few words,” I said.

“Doesn’t seem to be much room for anyone else to speak around here,” Seth said haughtily.

“If doctors said less, and did more for their patients, everyone would be better off,” Malcolm said, downing his drink and getting in his order for a second before the waitress departed.

“And if lawyers weren’t so greedy,” Seth said, “we wouldn’t have all the trumped-up malpractice cases cloggin’ our courts.”

Malcolm started to respond but I stepped in. “Malcolm, do you think we could find a few minutes alone? Over there?” I pointed to a spot by a window that hadn’t been occupied yet by other patrons.

“What is it, Jessica?” he asked as we went to it.

“Without going into detail,” I said, “you should know that Harry LeClaire not only knew Cynthia Warren well enough to give her ten thousand dollars the day before she died, he knows Gina Simone as well.”

“The young woman who charged Billy with attempted rape?”

“Exactly. I visited her. When I mentioned LeClaire’s name, she froze, slammed the door in my face. A half hour later, LeClaire picked her up and drove her to the airport for a flight to Fort Lauderdale.”

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“Yes, I have. There’s more. A second alternate juror, the pottery maker, Thomas McEnroe, also knew Cynthia Warren.”

“He did?”

“According to his partner in his gallery, a woman named Patty Zeltner. I spoke with her last night.”

He broke into a grin. “You’ve been more than busy, I’d say. Sure about McEnroe?”

“Yes.”

“What else has our distaff Sherlock turned up?”

“Only that LeClaire’s business is in trouble. According to Ritchie, he’s a heavy gambler, and owes casinos a great deal of money.”

“But he had enough to give Cynthia Warren ten grand.”

“Right. The court should know all this, shouldn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, Jessica, it certainly should know that two of its alternate jurors lied.”

“To get on the jury?”

“Could be. But I don’t want to spring it on Judge Wilson just yet.”

“Why not?”

“Poor man has a toothache. No sense making it worse.”

“Malcolm, I appreciate the humor but—”

“Not a word to anyone about this, Jessica.”

“But—”

He whispered now. “Neither LeClaire nor McEnroe have made the sitting jury. They won’t be voting on Billy’s innocence or guilt unless another juror drops out.”

“Or dies.”

“Or dies. The reason I want to keep this under wraps, Jessica, is that it’s good to have it in our pocket in the event Billy is convicted. Grounds for appeal no judge can ignore. And if he’s acquitted, I’ll bring it to the attention of the DA. No, let’s just keep it between us for now.”

“I still don’t think that’s a good idea, Malcolm. But you’re the attorney.”

“And you’re the mystery writer and detective. Keep digging.”

“Why?”

“Because things aren’t going as good as they were before with our case. That damn letter will pack a powerful punch with the jury. We’ll need everything we can come up with.”

I glanced back at the table, where Seth was looking in our direction, the same pained expression on his face. “We’d better get back,” I said.

“I suppose we should. Your doctor friend is an opinionated gentleman.”

I laughed. “He’s a sweetheart.”

“If you like doctors. My rule is to stay as far away from them as possible.”

“Unless you need them. Like lawyers.”

“That’s right. Unless you need them. Come on. They serve up decent scrod here, and the fries can’t be beat. We’ll be meeting all afternoon back at the office. You go on with your sleuthing, give me a call later in the day.”

Malcolm was right. The scrod and fries were good.

As we prepared to leave the restaurant, a familiar face came to the table. It was Warren Parker, the proverbial man-about-town to whom I’d been introduced by Malcolm during our first lunch together at the Seaside. As at our first meeting, he was impeccably dressed, and carried himself with the casual air of a man supremely sure of himself.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, extending his hand limply. “Still slumming with the eminent counselor, I see.”

“Hello, Mr. Parker. This is Dr. Seth Hazlitt, my friend from back home.”

“A pleasure,” Parker said.

“Whitney James here with you?” Malcolm asked without looking up from the check he was mentally going over.

“Not with me,” Parker said, flashing a smile. “Ms. James and I are not—how shall I say it—we no longer share tables at lunch, or philosophical thoughts.”

He said it directly to me.

“Nice seeing you again, Mr. Parker,” I said as Malcolm tossed cash on the check and stood. As we headed for the door, Parker stopped me. “Would you be free for dinner this evening, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I—no, I’m not. Dr. Hazlitt and I will be having dinner.”

“Then let the three of us dine together. My treat.”

Seth had been standing next to me and heard the invitation. “Seth?” I said.

“If you wish, Jessica.”

“All right,” I said. “Where and when?”

“Jasper’s, of course. Commercial Street at Atlantic. Shall we say seven?”

“All right.”

“Pretentious fella, isn’t he?” Seth said as we joined the others outside.

“Extremely. Mind having dinner with him?”

“Better than wasting a meal with that insufferable McLoon.”

I laughed and patted him on the back. “He’s really very nice once you get to know him. Malcolm grows on you.”

“So does fungus. What’s on your agenda this afternoon, Jessica?”

“First, to help you pick out some shirts and ties at Filene’s.”

“Appreciate the help. You always did have a good eye.”

“And after that, I have a few places to visit for the case. You’re welcome to join me.”

As we waited for the cars to pull up, I asked Malcolm how Billy Brannigan was faring in jail.

“Not too good,” he replied. “Very depressed. We’ve got him on a suicide watch.”

“How awful. I thought I might visit him, if that’s all right with you.”

“Fine with me. You’re on the approved visitor’s list.” He turned to Seth. “What kind of medicine do you practice, Doc?”

“Sound medicine—chum.”

The arrival of the Chevy was in time, and welcome.

“Sure that tie with all the yellow and red is right for me?” Seth asked as we left the famed Filene’s Basement, the country’s first discount store and still going strong.