Pride v. Prejudice (6 page)

I was still sitting there when an employee of the coffee shop came out a back entrance, a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. He gave me a suspicious look, as if I might be planning to dive into the nearest Dumpster. I managed to insert the car key in the ignition, flashed him a smile, and drove past the garbage cans to Thurber Street. I had half an hour before I met with Sarah's lawyer. It was not enough time to buy towels, redecorate the guest bedroom, and take a class in the art of the souffl
é
. Or any one of them.

I hadn't said anything to Peter about my plot to humiliate Prosecutor Wessell, since he was apt to object in a blustery sort of way. After lunch, he'd mentioned a meeting. It struck me as an opportunity to drop by the PD and see what I could find out about Miss Poppoy's burglars. If they were at large, they could qualify as suspects. Perhaps, I thought as I headed for the PD, they'd left the shotgun in the barn. Sarah had been so shocked by the discovery of Tuck's body that she'd mindlessly carried the shotgun inside. It was conceivable. Or they'd taken the shotgun when they went into the house to search for valuables, and were looking in the closet when they realized that Sarah was home. They'd panicked and fled. Neither was much of a theory, but it was the best I could do.

The desk sergeant informed me that Lieutenant Jorgeson was in his office. I found him in the hall, gazing morosely at the vending machine. Peter had said that Mrs. Jorgeson had dictated a diet that excluded fats, salt, and extraneous carbs, all available for specific combinations of coins. “Ms. Malloy,” he said as he spotted me, “how are you today?”

“We're looking forward to having you and your wife out to the house on Monday. Did Peter tell you who else is coming?”

“I believe he did,” Jorgeson said uncomfortably. “The captain and his wife, Luanne and a guest, and…”

“Peter says she likes opera.”

“Mrs. Jorgeson and I truly enjoyed the campus summer production of
Pagliacci.
The soprano did a superb job. The tenor may need to consider changing majors.”

“Farber College can't compete with the Met. I'm hoping you can help me find a little bit of information about an old case. Do you have a few minutes?”

Jorgeson sighed. “What old case interests you, Ms. Malloy?”

“A burglary,” I said, aware that he'd heard about my encounter with Wessell and was familiar with my propensity to take an interest in homicides. “A sweet elderly lady lost her family silver. Did the police recover it?”

“Give me the name and I'll look it up.” He gestured for me to precede him into his office. He did not sound enthusiastic, but he rarely did. I told him the victim's name was Poppoy and that she lived beyond the city limits. He toyed with his computer for several minutes, then said, “Patience Poppoy, a year ago last June. She told the deputies that two men forced their way inside, bound and gagged her, and ransacked the house for valuables. They made off with a box of silver, a TV, an antique musket, and a platinum wig. None of it made it to the local pawnshops.”

“What about the perps?”

“Both white, average height and weight, wearing ski masks, so there wasn't much to go on. There was a similar break-in two months later, over in Hasty. The police there hauled in suspects but couldn't hold them.” Jorgeson looked up from the screen. “Is Miss Poppoy a friend of yours, Ms. Malloy?”

“In a way,” I said. “Is there anything else in the report?”

“One of her neighbors reported a suspicious van in the area. The description was too vague to be useful.”

“What's the neighbor's name?”

“I don't think it matters, Ms. Malloy. The van was described as dark green. The witness said he'd noticed it parked alongside the highway a couple of times. He didn't think anything about it until after the burglary. Nobody else reported seeing it. The deputies wrote it off as teenagers drinking beer or smoking marijuana.”

“The name, please.” I may have sounded like Oliver Twist asking for a second helping of swill. I hoped Jorgeson was a softer touch than Mr. Bumble.

“I shouldn't do this,” he said, gazing at the computer screen. “Deputy Chief Rosen warned me not to encourage you. Wouldn't it be better if you went home and picked flowers for the guest room?”

“That's on the schedule for Monday morning.” I made a mental note to start a list as soon as possible. “I'm just trying to help out an old lady who lost her most treasured possessions.”

“And her wig.”

“She's probably too embarrassed to go to church without it. I cannot bear the idea of her being forced to lead such a lonely, pathetic life. This is no longer a police matter. The case is stone cold. Not even I can interfere in a nonexistent investigation, Jorgeson. All I want to do is find out if this neighbor has remembered anything else about the van or its occupants.”

“Zachery Barnard is the name. The address is Pinkie Sheer Road. No telephone number.”

“Thank you, Jorgeson. There's no reason to mention this to Peter. He must be very busy with the DEA.”

“Not really. Being bureaucrats, they have to follow official guidelines, one of which is to have periodic briefings with area police departments. Things are quiet, at least for the moment. The good citizens of Farberville are refraining from assaulting or murdering each other. Rush starts next week, so there will be a lot of minor-in-possession violations and DWIs.”

“Fraternity boys will be boys,” I said as I stood up.

“We usually have more trouble with the sororities.” Jorgeson came around his desk and opened the door for me. “We'll see you Monday, Ms. Malloy. Mrs. Jorgeson's excited about bringing her potato salad. It's her grandmother's recipe. She's dragging me to the farmers' market in the morning to buy fresh herbs.”

I stopped as a metaphorical lightning bolt struck the top of my head, splattering my composure. Peter's mother was more likely to be accustomed to filet mignon with B
é
arnaise sauce than hamburgers, potato salad, and baked beans. Mrs. Jorgeson might have her grandmother's treasured recipe, but Luanne had informed me that her recipe for baked beans began with a can opener.

“Are you okay?” Jorgeson said, his hand on my arm. “Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?”

“I can't,” I croaked. Would all the caterers be booked because of the three-day holiday? There could be dozens of weddings scheduled for Saturday and Sunday. I could learn to make B
é
arnaise sauce, given time to practice. Peter could grill asparagus along with the steaks. Baked potatoes would be too gauche, but I could find a recipe for mushroom risotto. Would the bakeries be closed on Labor Day? I realized I was on the brink of breaking into a sweat.

Jorgeson tightened his grip as I began to wobble. “I do think you should sit down, Ms. Malloy. The deputy chief's meeting should be over any minute. Why don't you come back into my office while I call him?”

“I don't have time for solicitude. I may alter the menu on Monday, but I'll let Mrs. Jorgeson know tonight so you won't have to waste a trip to the farmers' market.”

“Mrs. Rosen butters her toast like the rest of us,” he said.

“Unless the butler butters it for her.” I patted him on the cheek and returned to my car. For the record, I was not the victim of mother-in-law brutality. Carlton's mother, Miss Jessica, had not been the most likable person, but I'd found her amusingly eccentric in our encounters before she was murdered by a greedy family member. I need not elaborate on who exposed the murderer.

Trying to recall the ingredients in B
é
arnaise sauce, I drove to the Legal Aid office, located in what had been a bus depot before the city bought and renovated it. As I went inside, I noticed that the original redolence still lingered, a noxious combination of exhaust fumes, bleach, and unwashed bodies.

The receptionist eyed me. “Yes?”

“I have an appointment with Evan Toffle.”

“Down the hall, on the right.”

Evan was seated behind one of the three desks jammed in the room. Much of the remaining floor space had been dedicated to filing cabinets, wastebaskets, crumpled paper balls, and mismatched chairs for clients. The sole window offered a view of the back of an office building. No one had attempted to nurture a potted plant.

“Hey,” he said as I came into the room. “Sit anywhere. My colleagues are gone for the day.” He gestured at the pile of folders and open law books on his desk. “This isn't my idea of how to spend Labor Day weekend, but here I am. I, uh, don't quite know how to address you. Wessell made a muddle of the issue.”

“Please, call me Claire. Sarah told you that I've offered to try to help her.” I sat down on a chair across from him. “I hope that doesn't offend you.”

He cleared his throat. “I looked you up online.”

“The newspaper articles exaggerate my involvement,” I said modestly. “I may have stepped in when the detectives overlooked a clue or two, but my assistance was nominal. Prosecutor Wessell made me sound like a caped avenger. I am simply a concerned citizen.”

“Yeah,” he said, “and I can use all the help I can get. Wessell has a strong case, as well as thirty years of squashing defendants. I graduated and passed the bar two years ago.”

“Why didn't one of the more experienced attorneys take this case?”

“I got stuck with it in mid-August, prime vacation time for those with enough clout to dictate their schedules. I was in the courtroom, waiting for another arraignment, when the judge nailed me. The consensus in the office is that Sarah killed her husband after a domestic blowup, and that she'd accept a plea bargain for manslaughter. No trial, no headlines.” He gave me a pained grin. “That would have required her to plead guilty, which she won't. It also would have required Wessell to offer her a deal, which he won't. He has his eye on an upcoming vacancy in the district federal court.”

“So I heard,” I said. “How strong is his case against Sarah?”

Evan picked up a file, glanced at it, sighed, and tossed it back in the pile. “He's got motive. The ladies from the book club will testify that Sarah was angry at her husband. At the last meeting she said that she wanted to kill him because he'd forgotten to pick up her prescription before he left town. She was joking, of course, but the jury may not share her sense of humor. She—”

“Prescription?” I said. “For what?”

“An antidepressant. She admitted that she's been taking them for twenty years, on and off. I suggested that we consider bringing up the possibility of mental impairment, but she refused to consider it. She said living with her husband would depress anyone.” He closed his eyes. “She shared this with her book club ladies. Wessell can't drag in her therapist, but he can emphasize the point that she used drugs. I don't know the name of the particular antidepressant, but I can almost guarantee that it carries a warning not to drink alcohol while taking it—which Sarah did. Wessell will characterize that as recklessness on her part. If I bring up temporary mental incapacity, he'll point out that she should have been familiar with the potential side effects.”

“Let's move on, shall we?” I said, trying to hide my discouragement. Evan needed all my positive energy; he looked as though he might lapse into tears at any moment. Not a good sign in a lawyer. “Sarah told me that she drove home, went to bed, and wasn't awakened by any loud noises. Maybe the combination of the drug and alcohol knocked her out.”

“If she'd actually taken any pills. She'd run out several days earlier. That's why she was so annoyed when Tuck didn't pick up the prescription. I asked her if she had more to drink after she got home, but she said no. The only liquor in the house was a dusty bottle of cooking sherry. No empty bottles in the trash or in the truck.” He picked up the folder again, and for a moment I thought he was going to fling it at me. I was preparing to duck when he dropped it. “I've never fired any kind of gun. After I was assigned to the case, I went out to a gun club facility and asked for a demonstration. A twelve-gauge shotgun makes a remarkably loud noise. The estimated decibel range is one hundred and sixty-five. To put that in perspective, you're in pain at one hundred and twenty-five decibels, and in danger of permanent hearing damage at one hundred and forty decibels. The neighbors from the next farm heard the blast. Their house is maybe two hundred yards away. Sarah's bedroom is less than a hundred feet away.”

“She must be a sound sleeper,” I said.

“Very sound.”

“Earplugs?”

He shook his head. “No, and the investigators will testify that she had no problem hearing them. One of them called to her while she was upstairs, and she answered him.”

This was not going well. I was relieved that Evan Toffle was not a total incompetent, but Sarah might need Johnnie Cochran, F. Lee Bailey, and the rest of the team to avoid a guilty verdict. “Did she tell you about a burglary in the area earlier that summer? Two men broke into a neighbor's house, tied her up, and made off with her silver and other miscellaneous objects.”

Evan made a note on a yellow pad. “No, she didn't. I'll request the report from the sheriff's office. Do you think it's relevant?”

“Not especially,” I admitted. I related my two hypothetical scenarios that explained how the shotgun had ended up in the closet. When he failed to voice admiration for my ingenuity, I said, “The two men were never caught. It's possible they were skulking in the area and noticed the house was dark.”

“If the house was dark, maybe, but it wasn't. Tuck was home. According to what Sarah told me, Tuck had gone on a fishing trip with the guy across the pasture.” He opened the folder. “William Lund denied any knowledge of this. One of them lied about it, but that still puts Tuck in the house before midnight.”