Parlor Games (50 page)

“Yes, I think it was a game to her. She wanted to prove to May that she had money, too.”

Sawyer, undoubtedly worried about Daisy’s continuing along these lines, pounded a fist on the table. “Objection. Motive is imputed.”

“Sustained,” said Judge Flanagan. “The jury will ignore this remark.”

Powers placed a hand on the witness box and turned to Daisy. “To your knowledge, was Miss Shaver in the habit of bestowing gifts on ladies she favored?”

“Oh, yes, Frank often boasted about girls she’d been involved with.”

“Objection,” hollered Sawyer. “This is immaterial, as well as sweeping and unsubstantiated.”

“Mr. Powers,” said the judge, “I’ll advise you to avoid such broad questioning.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Powers said, then turned back to Daisy. “Did you have occasion to conduct some business on behalf of Miss Shaver with a Miss Nell McDaniel?”

“Yes, I did. Miss Shaver told me they’d been friends for six years, that Nell was a beautiful girl, and that she’d taken her to Alaska. But then the friendship turned sour, and Frank asked me to go to her office and get some things back from her.”

“Did you do so?”

“Yes, I picked up a real-estate deed and some stock certificates from Miss McDaniel, and she told me to tell Frank she was the biggest Indian-giver she ever knew.”

“Thank you, Miss Emmett.” Powers turned from the witness box. “Your witness, Mr. Sawyer.”

Sawyer attempted varied methods to upend Daisy: implying her
financial circumstances depended on my own “assets and largesse”; insinuating that she and I were partners in schemes to extricate money; and even referring to her and my brothers as my “henchmen.” (Such an ugly word; Sawyer was certainly crossing the line of civil discourse.) But Daisy handily outmaneuvered him. She smiled through her testimony, kept her hands planted on her lap, and exuded her usual calm aplomb.

Powers responded not by redirecting Daisy’s testimony but, rather, by calling Frank to answer Daisy’s charges. The flowers for my mother’s funeral? Never reimbursed, she said, though she couldn’t explain the note Daisy referred to. What about the thousand dollars I had handed over to her? She claimed it was not a gift but return of a loan, though she had no document to prove this. And the costly home remodeling? She wanted to please me and, besides, she was part owner in the house and expected the remodeling to enhance its value. She even went so far as to contend the bathtub had cost only $140. What about the gifts I had made to her? Those, she exclaimed, were mere trifles compared with the thousands of dollars’ worth of gifts she had showered on me. And in reference to the Nell McDaniel matter, Frank claimed that Nell had reneged on their understanding and that she’d never intended these items to be gifts.

Poor, poor Frank—she was on the run now.

A DESPERATE LETTER FROM FRANK
MENOMINEE—JANUARY 31, 1917

Dear May
,

You damn fool. Don’t you see where this is headed? The jury will rule for me, and you’ll be in water as hot as Hades. I don’t believe for one minute you don’t have the money. That claim of poverty stinks to high heaven. Next you’ll be telling me Mr. Rockefeller begs on street corners
.

You’ve got two choices: You can settle right now and agree to pay the money. We can keep the arrangement confidential and nobody but us and our attorneys will know the terms. That’d keep your reputation intact
.

Or you can let this thing play out and have your loss splattered all over the Chicago, New York, and who knows what other newspapers. And if that happens, I’ve got a surprise waiting for you—a special visitor that you’ll recognize in the courtroom tomorrow. That should be enough to make you think twice about ducking your responsibility!

I hope you understand what’s going to happen if you refuse to come up with the money. All your assets will be claimed by the court. Think about it. Do you really want your precious jewelry auctioned off?

You’re a fool, May, a damn fool. I gave you a way out, but no, you’re dead set on your stubborn ways. If you let the jury decide this, it’ll be good-bye between us forever
.

Your old friend
,

Frank

If Frank thought threats of this nature were sufficient to force my hand, she guessed wrong. Only I did wonder who the “special visitor” might be. Surely she couldn’t have tracked Ernest down. After all, the judge had ruled that the London lawsuit was immaterial. I hoped to God it wasn’t that blackguard Reed Dougherty.

THE TRIAL
TO THE JURY
MENOMINEE—FEBRUARY 1, 1917

T
he blizzard passed in the night, and the town awakened to clear skies and temperatures hovering near zero. A stillness hung over the streets, as if everybody had paused to contemplate the sparkling white expanses coating rooftops, yards, and woods.

Except me. I was as jumpy as a racehorse at the starting line. With the trial’s judgment fast approaching, I could think of little other than flight. Yet here I sat in the courtroom, contemplating sunshine slanting through the windows.

“Mr. Powers,” intoned Judge Flanagan, “you may call your next witness.”

My attorney stood and walked around the defendant’s table. A streak of sunshine rippled over his head and shoulders as he advanced to the front of the courtroom. “Your Honor, I have a short statement on that matter. May I?”

“As long as it is relevant.”

“Your Honor,” he said, and, turning to face the jury, “gentlemen of the jury. The Baroness May de Vries has decided not to testify before you.”

Gasps coursed through the courtroom. The jury members gaped at each other, their jaws flopping open.

Powers forged ahead. “She loves this town too much to be subjected to scrutiny before the dear people she has known all her life. She considers Menominee her home town, her sanctuary.”

The judge frowned in that threatening way of his, and I feared he might cut off Mr. Powers’s statement.

If Powers discerned the judge’s intent, he disregarded it, sweeping
a hand toward the windows. “For not far from this very place, beside St. Ann’s Church, rests her dear mother.”

“Mr. Powers,” said Flanagan, “the court has heard your announcement.”

This was too much for me—the mention of my mother, whom I grieved still, and Flanagan belittling the matter of my testimony. With tears blurring my vision, I scooped up my coat and rushed down the aisle. As I neared the door, a man rose and placed his hand on the knob.

My God—it
was
Reed Dougherty. He opened the door for me; I avoided his eye and rushed down the stairs to the first-floor foyer, nearly losing my footing. Steps beat down the stairs after me. No, I thought, I won’t speak to Dougherty. Not now, not ever again if I can help it. Why was he here—other than to persist in his torment of me? I’d never once mentioned him to Frank. How did she manage to find him? And what could he have to do with this trial? My stomach curdled. I dashed toward the ladies’ restroom at the rear of the corridor, determined to dodge him.

“Are you all right?” It had been Gene, my dear brother, bounding down the stairs after me.

I turned and ran to him. He rushed up and wrapped his arms around me.

“I can’t stay here,” I managed to say, the tears coming fast now. “Please, take me home.”

When Gene and Paul returned for lunch, they informed me I’d missed Mr. Sawyer’s closing statement. Paul asked if I wanted a report on it.

“Not really.” I stood over the stove warming up two-day-old venison stew. “But did you see that tall, lanky man at the back of the courtroom?”

“Never saw him before,” said Gene. “Must be some new reporter.”

“Did he talk to Frank? Or her lawyer? Or anybody else?”

“Not that I saw,” Gene said, fetching some bowls from the cupboard.

Paul eyed me. “You know him?”

“Just wondering who he might be.” I leaned over the kettle and
stirred from the bottom, releasing the stew’s sweet meaty scent. I’d added a few spoons of Maman’s secret ingredient—molasses.

“Stew’s plenty hot,” I said.

“Sit down,” said Paul. “We’ll serve.”

As I turned toward the kitchen table, I caught Gene and Paul exchanging looks. “All right, you two. I know a conspiracy when I see it. What’s on your minds?”

“Good God,” said Gene, “you’re starting to sound like a lawyer.”

Tokyo’s toenails clicked on the kitchen floor as he followed me to the table. “Do you blame me? I bet
you
can’t think of anything but this beastly trial, either.”

At that they both hung their heads, guilty as charged. Paul opened the bread box, grabbed the half loaf left over from Wednesday’s baking, and sliced it. Gene set the table and served up the stew.

“Well?” I asked as they sat and scraped their chairs up to the table.

Paul lifted his spoon and held it poised over his bowl. “We’ve been thinking we ought to ask you a few things.”

“Mm-hmm.” I spooned up a mouthful of the steaming stew and chewed around a gristly hunk of meat. Although the stew wanted something to balance out the meat’s toughness, I had oversweetened the broth.

Paul shifted on his haunches. “If we lose, the judge might slap an order on the business. Use the inventory to pay off the judgment.”

I plucked the gristle from my mouth and held it down for Tokyo. He daintily nibbled at my fingers, extracting the treat. “We’re not going to lose,” I said. “We’ve got a signed release.”

Gene sprang upright in his chair. “But Sawyer claims it’s not legitimate.”

I calmly met his eyes. “He can’t very well explain away Frank’s signature.”

“He says it was obtained under duress.”

I sighed. This hardly warranted a response.

Paul rested a hand on Gene’s arm, as if signaling him to restrain himself. “We just want to put our minds at ease. We wouldn’t lose the business, would we?”

“No,” I said. “You’ll still have your business.”

Paul ignored the wisps of steam rising from his bowl. “Frank
holds half interest in the house. Even if she loses, we figure she’ll want to be bought out.”

“Sure she will. She’s shown her colors, hasn’t she?”

Gene glanced at Paul, then turned to me. “We don’t have that kind of money.”

“I know that.”

Paul leaned toward me, resting his forearms on the table. “Do you?”

“Not handy,” I said.

“But you can get it, right?”

“Sure I can.”

“Where?”

I hated how Paul always questioned me. “It’s better if I don’t say. Do you think I was fool enough to declare everything in my list of assets? Now, don’t ask again. I’ve already said too much.”

Paul studied me, as if contemplating his next move.

I reached my hands out, resting one on Gene’s forearm and the other on Paul’s. “You’re my brothers. I won’t let you down.”

Gene raised his bowed head, as if ashamed of asking me about money in the first place, and nodded, regarding me with a feeble smile.