The Sparrow Sisters (26 page)

It had been years since the judge had seen something this serious, never mind the preliminary hearing to come. He scanned the papers again as the woman and her lawyer stood uncertainly. Whatever this thing turned out to be, there was no way in hell he'd find an impartial jury should it go to trial. It seemed like half the town was crowded into the courtroom; the other half was probably leaning across counters and car hoods talking about it. This would have to be his judgment, his ruling, his reading of the law, and his conscience as
he considered whether Patience Sparrow should face a grand jury.

The county prosecutor cleared his throat once, twice, and finally the judge looked up.

“Your Honor, the charge is negligent manslaughter.” He raised his voice on the word “manslaughter.” “The community is troubled, and rightly so, by the suspect's access to the Sparrow Sisters Nursery and its contents. She is, by the very nature of the charge, a danger to the community. We ask that you deny bail.”

Patience looked at Simon, who put his hand on her arm.

“And you?” Judge Adams said to the defense.

“Your Honor, I am Simon Mayo, attorney for the defendant. This is not a capital charge, and Patience Sparrow has lived in Granite Point, as have I, all her life. She has a business, not some secret garden, sisters who depend on her, she is certainly not a flight risk, and since we will enter a plea of not guilty . . .” He stopped. “In fact, we haven't had a chance to plead.”

“You're a Mayo,” Judge Adams said. “I went to law school with your father.”

“Oh,” Simon said, “I see.” But he couldn't see if this was a good or a bad thing. What if they'd hated each other at Harvard? One on law review, the other denied? One got the girl, the other a broken heart?

“How do you plead?” Judge Adams turned his gaze on Patience. His eyes were sharp and clear. He would not be easy to charm.

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” she whispered.

“Again,” he snapped, and Patience said it again.

“Back to bail, sir,” Hutchins said. “We are talking about the death of a child here. This may be a small town, but it is mere hours from a major airport.”

“Come on,” Simon said. “I'd be surprised if she had a passport.”

Patience frowned. “I do, actually,” she said quietly. “Sorrel made me get one.” Simon went still, resisting the urge to kick her foot under the table.

“Your Honor, please,” Simon continued. “There is no evidence of any value, no motive, only a regretful, neglectful father who has focused his guilty grief on the only good thing in his son's life. If there is any crime here, it is the father's.”

“Objection!” the prosecutor snapped. “This is not about Robert Short.”

“Quiet,” Judge Adams said. “As for evidence, that remains to be seen.” He steepled his hands and looked over them at the Sisters. He noticed that the chairs had now completely filled with people. Rows of faces were turned to him: expectant, alight with excitement.

“I will set bail at two hundred thousand dollars.” There was a ripple of amazement from the observers. The Sisters were stunned by the amount, the prosecutor pleased. Simon Mayo just shook his head.

“If Miss Sparrow is as humble as you say, counselor, that number is beyond her bank account, and she will remain in
custody.” Judge Adams turned to the prosecutor. “If Mr. Short is as devastated by his son's death as
you
say, Mr. Hutchins, why is he not in this room fighting for justice?”

Paul Hutchins stuttered as he tried to think of a way to spin Rob Short's drunken absence. “Mr. Short is ill,” he said at last. “He has been unable to leave his house practically since the murder.”

“Objection!” shouted Simon. “The charge is not murder.”

“You can't object to Mr. Hutchins answering my direct question, Mr. Mayo.” Judge Adams nodded to the policeman who served as the occasional bailiff.

Patience was led away again. Shock turned her face pale and mask-like. To the spectators she looked unmoved. She eased into the car as gently as she could. She felt skinned by the judge as he eyed her with contempt. Now even Chief Kelsey couldn't meet her gaze. He was stunned too; he didn't believe Patience was guilty, not really, and he had naturally assumed that the judge would take one look at Rob Short and toss the whole thing out. But Rob Short wasn't there. Which left Patience in front of a near stranger who had no reason at all to believe in her.

A
LL THE WAY
home the Sisters argued with Simon about how to pay the bail.

“We'll use Ivy House,” Sorrel said, and Nettie agreed.

“No,” Simon said. “You can't, it's your home.”

“Patience isn't going to flee, Simon,” Sorrel said. “Besides,
do you have a better idea? A secret Mayo fund for the wrongly accused, perhaps?”

Simon just shook his head.

“I can't put the money up,” he said. “It would be a conflict of interest down the line.”

“What about the Nursery?” Nettie asked.

“How much is it worth?” Simon asked Sorrel.

“Not very much as a business without us, but the land . . .” She trailed off.

“None of this should matter,” Nettie said. “We do what we have to and find the money. Patience is innocent. This will all be over, and we'll go back to the way we were.”

“Oh, Nettie.” Sorrel sighed.

When they pulled up at Ivy House, Ben was pacing the sidewalk.

“They're searching Henry's place,” he said before Simon turned off the engine.

“How can they do that?” Nettie asked.

“The judge must have issued a warrant, given that Henry's the only doctor in town, Matty's doctor of record. You'll be next,” Simon said as he opened Sorrel's door. “Is there anything I need to know?”

Sorrel frowned. “How can you ask that?”

Nevertheless, the Sisters led Simon into Patience's room. He looked around at the bed, neatly made by Nettie, the stack of books by her chair, and the sundress hanging on the back of the door. He walked down the hall to the bathroom but stopped
at the door to Sorrel's room. He drew in a breath when he saw her nightgown draped across the foot of her bed, her hairbrush on top of that. In the bathroom he opened the medicine cabinet and shifted the items around. Simon didn't know what he was looking for, and he hoped he wouldn't find it. He stood with his hands on the sink until he heard Ben call his name.

“Simon,” Ben yelled from the foot of the stairs, “they're here.”

It was Nettie's turn to feel sick. Three policemen split up, two downstairs and one up. The officer squeezed by Sorrel awkwardly, and she stared him down.

“Who's out catching bad guys?” Sorrel growled, and Simon shook his head. “Oh, sorry, I mean who's directing traffic?” she asked.

Ben followed the cop through the living room, the formal dining room—which was so seldom used it was as dusty as Nettie ever let anything get in Ivy House—the library that Thaddeus Sparrow had filled with travel books and several antique globes. He had hoped to convince the Sisters to leave Granite Point, find another place to call home, another way to live. In the end all the library did was give Marigold a place to die, her sisters somewhere to grieve.

Officer Fancy came into the kitchen. Ben started to get nervous as the policeman reached for the tall cupboard door. Of course, he told himself, there was nothing in
that
cupboard, and the one at the Nursery had already been searched. Still, as Ben watched the man open it, watched how the smells that came out
affected the young cop, saw the slight flutter of his lashes as he inhaled, Ben was relieved. He could tell that whatever was in the cupboard—and truthfully, it was nothing more than the ingredients the Sisters used every day as they fed one another—it was enough to distract the cop. Martin Fancy closed the door and turned toward the garden, his mind still less than present. If Ben had asked him what he was thinking as he drifted to the screen door and paused with his hand splayed against it, Martin would have told him that the smell of cumin and coriander seed reminded him of his grandmother and the gentle curry she made whenever he or his brothers caught cold. He and Patience had always gotten along, even way back in grade school. It was the warmth of that memory that had made him close his eyes as he searched the cupboard shelves for some item that looked out of place. He couldn't see a thing; he didn't want to.

Henry Carlyle had not been quite so polite when the chief handed him a search warrant. He seethed as the same policemen had scattered through his apartment. The office had already been covered when Chief Kelsey took away Matty Short's records. Such a small place, and the three additional men made it feel like a clown car; they spilled out of one small room after another until, in Henry's bedroom, one of them lifted up the quilt Patience had left him and stood still for a moment, his eyes slightly glazed as he looked out the window. Henry remembered how he and Patience had fallen asleep on that quilt in the backyard, a bowl of blackberries turned over between them, dark juice staining their lips and fingertips.

“Hey!” Henry said and reached for the quilt. “Come on.”

“I'm sorry, doctor, but this is what a search entails.” This from a cop who Henry had seen only the week before for a virulent stomach bug he'd caught from his toddler. He'd actually held his crew-cut head as he heaved into a basin in his office. Now this same guy was holding Henry's bed linen, touching things Patience had touched, kneeling on places where Patience had lain in his arms.

The cop put the quilt back on the bed and said, “It could use a clean.”

Now it can, thought Henry. Now everything is dirty.

After they rummaged through his kitchen and made a record of his pain meds, gave him a respectful nod when they found his medals, Henry was left alone. He picked up for a while, but was suddenly so exhausted that he lay down on his bed and pulled the quilt around him. The storms had left the air heavy and wet. Henry was chilled now that he'd changed out of his courtroom suit. He thought he might actually be able to sleep, a state that had eluded him for days now. He closed his eyes, knowing he should be doing something to help Patience, but he couldn't come up with a thing, nor could he come up with the energy. Pain simmered beneath the skin on his leg and there was a constant cramp in his calf from his limp. Henry rolled over until he was on Patience's side of the bed and swore in frustration.

Henry decided that he needed to get out; at least his office would be free of Patience memories. He'd already rescheduled
patients for the day, and he knew the temp would be in a lather over the mud the policemen had left in the waiting room. If he couldn't be with her, he might as well work. Henry unwrapped the quilt and sat up.
I can't wash this,
he thought.
It still smells of Patience.
And it did, as clean and fresh as her skin when Henry pressed his face into her shoulder. Henry rubbed the fabric between his fingers. The ivy ran along in loopy tangles, and the violets were scattered across the surface in a purple wave.
Like her curtains,
he thought, and drew it closer. The deep green of the leaves seemed almost three-dimensional, picked out as they were by tiny hand stitches, and the purple petals felt silky beneath his fingers. He'd always assumed that the coverlet was old, an heirloom from Sparrow ancestors, a grandmother or an aunt whose hopes for the girls seemed foolish now. But he realized that it wasn't so; it was new, it had to be. The cotton lawn was too white, too pristine to have been used well over the years. He saw that the quilt was filled with padding and something else, herbs or plants. They released their scent as he folded and unfolded it, slid under his hands until they were crushed and bled pale green through the white cotton. The flowers stitched into it were new, too. Or more correctly, as Henry finally saw, they were real, as fresh as the day they bloomed. Henry shivered and dropped the quilt onto his bed. Dirt crunched underfoot as he walked out of the bedroom, mud was smeared across his fingertips, and pollen feathered his chin. He was unsteady as he went downstairs, his bad leg giving under him with each step. And then he took off at a dead painful run.

“W
HAT HAS SHE
done to me?” Henry shouted. He'd come through the door without knocking, through Ivy House without stopping, past Simon bent over his briefcase in the front hall. His hands were fisted at his sides, and he stumbled as his leg finally gave way completely. Grabbing the back of a kitchen chair, Henry nearly went down, but Nettie snagged his arm. He shook her off as he regained his footing.

“Leave it!” he snapped, and Nettie stepped back with a soft cry.

“Henry, you need to calm down,” Sorrel said and moved toward him.

“Don't touch me,” Henry said. “I can't stand it.” He dropped into the chair. “What the hell are you people?”

Simon came into the kitchen. He walked to the sink and poured a glass of Scotch. It seemed to be the only thing he got right lately. He handed it to Henry, who gulped it without expression. He held his glass out to Simon, who poured again.

“Now,” Simon said. “Tell me what just happened.”

“The quilt, it's full of something, the violets . . . I don't know.” Henry stopped and ran his hand through his hair until it stood up. Nettie thought he looked like a boy and had to stifle the urge to hold him. Henry fell into a chair, put his elbows on the table, and rested his forehead in his palms. “Patience tricked me, didn't she?”

“No, Henry!” Nettie came around the table and knelt next to Henry. “Patience loves you.”

“And I love her,” Henry said and looked at Nettie. “But is it real?”

“Of course it is,” Sorrel answered. “A Sparrow doesn't fall lightly.” She looked at Simon. “She would never hurt you, Henry. Patience knows better.”