Proof of Innocence Page 19

  “Laurel told Pan about the affair?”

  Charlotte’s mouth stretched. “Affair is far too genteel. But, yes, Laurel told Pan.”

  “Why?”

  “To get Pan out of the way, of course.”

  Was the woman saying her sister killed Pan Wade?

  Charlotte continued, “Laurel went after Wade. But she wanted marriage. To get that, she prepared to remove the obstacle that he already had a wife. She wanted that marriage to break up. Since word wasn’t getting around fast enough — or Pan wasn’t catching on fast enough — Laurel told her. She advised Pan to give Wade his freedom so we can find happiness together.” The woman added evenly, “Pan said Laurel also showed her pictures — photographs of Laurel and Rick in the act.”

  Maggie closed her mouth, tried again. “Laurel must have been happy when it looked like Pan would leave with Carson.”

  “At first. But then Rick became the issue. He said he was done with her and wanted Pan back.”

  Giving Laurel a motive to kill Pan.

  But then who would have killed her?

  Unless Rick found out she’d killed Pan, and wanted revenge.

  The same motive applied to Carson.

  Revenge would explain the similarities in the crime scenes — and the dissimilarities.

  “She must have been furious — Laurel, I mean,” Maggie said. “How did she intend to get him to change his mind?”

  Charlotte gave her a scornful look. “I told you we were not prone to sisterly confidences. She didn’t tell me what she had in mind. But it was clear by the trial she’d tired of waiting for Rick. She’d set her sights on Eugene Tagner.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “That counts against Laurel as a suspect for Pan’s murder. She’d already moved on. There’s no motive to kill the competition when she’s no longer competition,” Maggie said — not for the first time since they’d left Rambler Farm.

  J.D. didn’t disagree, but he had a different priority.

  “Wade’s the one we should be talking to,” he said — also not for the first time.

  At Rambler Farm, he and Dallas had finally shaken loose of the judge’s hospitality, but barely reached the hallway outside the dining room when Maggie came from the back of the house, jerking her head toward the front door in silent order.

  Dallas demurred, but didn’t physically resist when she took his arm and ushered him out.

  As she drove to Monroe House, she’d recounted her conversation with Charlotte.

  There’d been a brief break when they arrived, while Evelyn issued orders to all of them that got their delayed dinner on the table in short order.

  All of them included Scott.

  He’d stopped by to drop off copies of the transcripts for Maggie and Dallas. Evelyn insisted he join them for dinner.

  In light of Dallas’ comment to Maggie about people feeling obliged to ask you to stay for dinner if you came by at a certain time, J.D. suspected Scott timed his arrival to get a dose of Evelyn’s cooking.

  No matter what motives were at work, the five of them sat down for the meal — and for Dallas’ grilling of Maggie, aiming to pull out every last detail of her talk with Charlotte.

  Neither Evelyn nor Scott said anything, but J.D. doubted they missed a syllable. He sure didn’t.

  At the end, he repeated, “Wade next.”

  “Not yet.” Maggie didn’t look his way.

  “Wade’s done everything but paint a sign on his back. What more do you want?”

  “Evidence.”

  “You want an eyewitness, too?” The sarcasm was sharper than he’d intended, and he saw her absorb the slice, then reassure herself he couldn’t possibly know…

  He did know.

  Her family history. The trial. What followed.

  The facts, those he knew. Where or how those facts made her vulnerable, he didn’t know. Not completely. Not yet.

  “Hard evidence is always better than an eyewitness,” she said.

  Having been an eyewitness all those years ago, she would know.

  Yet she made no effort to soften that judgment on herself. Whatever else, he admired that in her.

  “Not with a jury,” Dallas said.

  “Juries are built to be led,” she shot back.

  “Who better to lead them than a good eyewitness?”

  “That’s an oxymoron — a good eyewitness. All witnesses are bad, tainted by their biases, by their hopes, by their beliefs, by their—” The break was more a breath than a hesitation. “—weaknesses.”

  “That’s where a good lawyer comes in,” Dallas said. “To make the most of a witness. Shore up the weaknesses if it’s your witness and spotlight the weaknesses if it’s not.”

  “And the hell with the truth?” Before Dallas could respond, Maggie slashed air with her hand. “This is all terrific fodder for discussion, but we have work to do. And that’s to get information to the sheriff—”

  “I’ll call when we finish here.”

  “—and pursue what we discover with an eye to whether the two cases connect.”

  “Wade,” he said. “He’s got means, opportunity, motive. For both.”

  “Motive? Why would he kill Pan when she was going back to him?”

  He noticed her slight emphasis on he and its implication that Rick’s motive wasn’t clear, while J.D.’s was.

  “She changed her mind again,” Scott said. “She could have. Told Rick it was over. Rick hates losing at anything and especially…” He looked up, then away.

  “Especially to me,” J.D. filled in.

  The trailer rat, the whore’s bastard, the witch’s pet.

  Maggie’s frown deepened. “You said on the stand that she wasn’t leaving him, that she’d decided to give it another try.”

  As her gaze came toward him, he dropped his to that tapping fork.

  “We’d agreed she would go back to Wade and give it another try. I encouraged her. If I hadn’t, she might still be alive. I have to live with that.”

  “Only with that? I notice you don’t proclaim your innocence, Carson.”

  “Not since the trial, no. Waste of breath. Wouldn’t convince those who believe I’m guilty and it’s not necessary for those who believe I’m not. Besides there’s already enough proclaiming going on.”

  “Meaning Wade?”

  “Meaning accusing someone else could be one hell of a diversion.”

  Her brows arched. “Given that some thought, have you?”

  “Have you noticed I didn’t accuse anyone until evidence pointed to Wade?”

  She slapped the fork on the tablecloth. “Supposition. It’s all supposition. And without saying Wade killed Pan, there’s no motive for him to kill Laurel. Unless you’re saying Laurel killed Pan.”

  “The guilt of having an affair with her,” Dallas said, “and how he betrayed Pan.”

  “Why now? The affair ended four-and-a-half years ago.”

  “Guilt built up over time until he couldn’t handle it,” Dallas said.

  She grimaced.

  “Laurel threatened to topple his alibi,” J.D. said. “If Laurel thought she wouldn’t get more money out of Eugene, she might have tried Wade. He’d realize his alibi wasn’t safe.”

  “Blackmail,” Dallas murmured. “Could be, could be.”

  “Could. But Laurel was going to get more money out of Eugene. She was holding those papers he needed signed as hostage.” Maggie tapped the tip of her unused dessert fork on the tablecloth. “Besides, you missed an obvious possible reason for why now.”

  “J.D., will you pass me that fine potato casserole of Evelyn’s?”

  “Dallas,” Evelyn protested.

  “Just another bite.”

  As J.D. passed the dish to Dallas at the head of the table, Maggie continued as if she hadn’t heard the potato casserole exchange — and maybe she hadn’t. “Because Carson’s back in Bedhurst full-time. Anyone hoping to deflect suspicion onto a likely suspect would think of that.”


  He didn’t turn his head toward her, but he didn’t try to stop his eyes.

  Yes, it was there in her face — she knew it represented the first time she’d offered anything that might indicate his innocence in this murder.

  It didn’t last, of course. He wasn’t fool enough to expect it would. But it was a step, a necessary step.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  For a suspended moment of stillness and silence, he held her gaze, right there where he wanted it.

  She jerked up from her chair. “Thank you for dinner, Evelyn. I’m going to the guesthouse now to start on the transc—”

  “But Maggie,” Dallas interrupted, “I thought you wanted to talk to the Blankenships’ cook.”

  * * * *

  Allarene Robinson’s house was among the small brick boxes before the highway slowed to Main Street. The drive gravel drive bled into scrubby grass. But the brick-based porch was lined with pots of flowers and young vegetables so healthy they promised to spill over their mismatched pots as soon as full spring arrived.

  A slender, middle-aged black woman answered their knock.

  “Allarene,” Dallas said. “We hope to have a word with you if we may. This is Maggie Frye from Fairlingon, and you know J.D.”

  She looked toward Maggie’s car, and beyond it to the road. She kept looking, even as she opened the door and silently invited them in.

  “It’s just us,” Dallas said. “This is an informal discussion.”

  She gestured them to seats in the tiny living room. Dallas took one of a matching pair of chairs, Allarene the other, which left Maggie and Carson the loveseat.

  The woman said, “I need that job, Mr. Dallas.”

  “I know you do. Takin’ care of your boy and all.” Dallas’ drawl deepened and widened. “We can’t swear not to use what you tell us if it helps find who killed Laurel. But if it doesn’t, none of us will ever share a word. Isn’t that right, Maggie? J.D.?”

  “That’s right,” Carson said.

  Maggie’s silence brought the older woman’s attention to her. “I will do my utmost to preserve the confidentiality of your information. However, if it contributes to a case against a murderer, you could be called to testify.”

  From the corner of her eye, Maggie caught Dallas’ frown. She kept her gaze on Allarene Robinson. At last, she lowered her head, a single, slow nod.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “The sheriff has reports from a number of folks who did work ’round Rambler Farm. Those are official. We’re not askin’ for official from you, Allarene. But what you can tell us is the other side, the human side. Nobody else can give us that. These reports, they’re sayin’ Laurel was—” Dallas cleared his throat. Maggie figured it was to make way for a convoluted euphemism. She was wrong. “—sexually teasin’ her brother-in-law.”

  “She tormented that man.”

  “And Charlotte?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s what she was after — tormenting Charlotte. Laurel’s done that all her life one way or another. Showing her power. I don’t know she truly meant evil by it. More like a cat keeping its nails sharp by taking regular swipes, not heeding that the scratches went to the bone.”

  Maggie felt as if her vision of Laurel had been a waft of smoke until those few words condensed her into solid form.

  “Did you feel sorry for Charlotte?” Maggie asked.

  Allarene said without emphasis, “No.”

  Dallas nodded. “Tell us about the mood in the household.”

  “A pot on bubble, ready to boil over every minute. Judge the only one didn’t know it, feel it. He was happy having Laurel there.” Her tone added a slightly sharper undercurrent. “And having Charlotte run things.”

  “Like before Laurel got married?”

  “Worse. Laurel’d been careful like around Judge before. Coming back, she wasn’t. And Charlotte was more stiff-necked, thinking she ruled the Farm, like her mama used to.”

  “Well, Charlotte does run things, doesn’t she?” Dallas asked mildly.

  Allarene gave a dismissive snort, barely audible. “That one’ll never be her mama. She was a lady, through and through. Judge is a fine man. Those two girls…” She glanced toward the loveseat, as if remembering her additional audience.

  Dallas said, “We’ve heard Laurel might’ve been receivin’ phone calls.”

  “Not many on the house line.”

  “What about on her phone?”

  “Oh, that was forever going off. She didn’t let another soul touch it, much less answer, even though she left it here, there, everywhere. Drove Charlotte mad, especially when Laurel accused her of trying to listen. Why, she even cut up Judge when he picked it up when it was ringing and ringing in the sunroom. He kept trying to find it to stop the noise. Finally tracked it to under a cushion. Laurel comes flying in, snatches it from him and snaps about leaving her things alone. But that was early on before she changed about it.”

  “Changed?”

  “To start, she was having a high time with the calls. Giggling, talking low, lots of sugar, like it was some secret game. Got less like that after a while. Toward the last, she went sour. Most often snapping it off when it started to ring. When she did answer, not wasting a speck of sugar.”

  “You said at the end — how long before she died would you say?”

  Tipping her head, she stared at her scrubbed-clean hearth. “Near a week, for sure.”

  “Do you know who was callin’?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “Didn’t know, didn’t want to know.”

  “Thinkin’ back to when Pan Wade was killed, can you recall anything that might connect her death and Laurel’s?” The woman slowly shook her head. “Some similarity you might have noticed? Or something you heard? Or — What is it, Allarene? Something you heard?”

  “Not — It’s only, it hadn’t struck me till this instant that Miss Pan visited the Farm the week before she died. Spent time with Charlotte.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “I was workin’. Not eavesdropping,” she said quietly.

  “I most sincerely apologize for makin’ it sound like anything else would be the case, Allarene. If you could tell us anything you remember of that visit, we’d be most grateful.”

  “But it couldn’t have no bearing on Miss Pan getting killed. Or Laurel.”

  “Anything we can piece together of the days and weeks before each death might help. Even something routine like visitin’ an old friend.”

  Allarene put a hand to her forehead, obscuring Maggie’s view of her face.

  “Wasn’t routine for her to visit the Farm. Used to happen more when they were girls, going to school together and all. But not later. That time poor Miss Pan came in looking like a rainy day trying to fool everyone it was sunny. She and Charlotte sat outside. They were talking about old times when I brought out the iced tea, about being youngsters at school with you—” She nodded toward Carson. “—and all. Later, I remember seeing Miss Pan curled up like on the swing. I heard her voice — not words — and there were tears in it. Made me sad, such a nice young lady. And also knowing … it wasn’t a good day to come calling on Charlotte. We had a big do — you recall that dinner with the Attorney General?”

  “I do,” he said. “And I recall you did yourself, the judge, and Bedhurst County proud with that dinner, Allarene.”

  She bowed her head in regal acknowledgement. “Learned my cooking from my mama, but learned how to do for important folks from Miss Yvonne. She had a grace. Brought it together easy-like. Charlotte gets worked up. Tighter and tighter. Reconsidering when there’s no more time for it. Making lists, all sorts of do-remembers and double-check-what’s-been-dones and keeps on even when folks are there and she should be enjoying the guests — leastwise making sure they’re enjoying themselves.”

  She fell silent, and no one stirred, letting her memory reach back.

  “After a while, I heard Charlotte’s voice getting louder and stiff
er, and I got a here-we-go thought, because that’s how she is before a big do — even Laurel’d steer clear of her then. Then she shouted. Something about Miss Pan getting everything without doing anything. Miss Pan must’ve left soon, though I can’t say for sure because I was in the kitchen, polishing silver, and she didn’t come say good-bye and give a word of thanks the way she always did. Last time I saw that sweet girl.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  9:06 p.m.

  “Week before she died was when Laurel changed about those calls — right when she went to Zales’ office and told him to draw up those papers. Interesting,” Maggie said with them all back in the car. “Wish we could talk to Henry Zales.”

  “He wouldn’t tell you a thing anyway,” Dallas said with apparent satisfaction from the backseat. “Besides why be sour when she was getting what she wanted?”

  Maggie backed out of the driveway. “The calls could explain that. Her other plane lover had given her what she needed — enough to force Eugene to give in — and she wanted Mr. Other Plane Lover gone. He didn’t want to go.”

  She felt Carson’s gaze on her. Was he reminded of what he’d heard between her and Roy? At least the part about wanting him gone and him not wanting to go.

  “Might not have been a lover, the way people talked. And she might have gotten information from another source,” he said.

  “Possibly,” she conceded.

  Dallas clicked his seatbelt closed. “One thing’s closer to buttoned up. Eugene was telling the truth about the calls.”

  “Not necessarily. He could have been the one making them.”

  “I admire you not limiting your thinking, Maggie. But some avenues have to be closed off, at least temporarily, or you’ll never get far enough down the others to know if they lead somewhere.”

  “There’s no—”

  “What Dallas is saying,” Carson interrupted, “is it’s less likely Eugene was lying about the calls, because Laurel was giggling and happy about them when she was trying to punish him, and her sour attitude coincided with Eugene coming to heel.”