“Anyway, there he was, reeking, filthy, and at any moment some one could have walked in. So he jumped into the pool, clothes and all, maybe even with the gas can; he stripped under water, anchored everything out of sight. They couldn’t risk anyone’s seeing the clothes, the can, or smelling gas. Kay ran to get his robe, and then Angela appeared while she was still carrying the robe. Having Angela appear at the front door must have been almost as great a shock as seeing Craig covered with blood and gas.”
There was complete silence while they all considered it. Finally Larry Coltrane said, “That’s why they had to pump out the pool and scrub it down. There could have been some gas left in the can.”
“And why Craig and Rich went out for a short cruise on Monday,” Barbara said.
“To dump the clothes and the can at sea.” She gave Coltrane a bitter look.
“I suspect he left footprints on the flagstones, on the carpet, somewhere.
Something that made it necessary to send Mrs. Melrose home early before she noticed. I’d press Mrs. Mel rose about the footprints she saw. And I’d see if they re decorated the house after that new carpets, for instance.”
“Barbara, if I may ask,” Judge Paltz said, looking thoughtful, “what made you even think of this particular scenario, true or not, as time will tell?”
“The missing clothes,” she said.
“Craig testified that he changed in the dressing room, but Mrs. Melrose didn’t find any dirty clothes there, and no one had gone to get them. She had no reason to lie about that Or any thing else. He put on the robe that his mother provided.
And there was no reason for her to take him a robe if his own clothes were available. That and the fabrication of an excuse to clean the pool and get rid of Mrs.
Melrose at the same time.”
“Even if there’s a shred of truth,” Larry Coltrane said after a moment, “there’s no way on earth to prove any thing. Just another story.”
“And what was it when you set your eyes on Paula Kennerman?” Barbara demanded.
“Every shred of evidence pointed away Aom her, but you never wavered.
Battered-wife syndrome, blame the mother, no more questions.”
“Statistically we were right,” he said.
“It usually is the mother, or the father.”
“Paula Kennerman isn’t a statistic! If you want a battered woman, look at Kay Dodgson. Without Rich to tell her what to say and how to say it, she’ll tell you whatever you need. She’s put in a lifetime of serving men. You saw her in the courtroom! She cracked wide open! Without her men, she’ll talk. If she thinks for a second that she can keep her younger son Alex from being involved, she’ll beg for a chance to talk. Or if she thinks for a second there’s a chance for Craig to get off with manslaughter instead of murder, she’ll sing and dance for you.” She was shaking, and stood up, jammed her hands in her pockets.
“I need a cup of coffee. Are we finished here?”
“What the hell was all that shit about Gallead, then?”
Coltrane yelled.
“Just muddying the waters?”
“Don’t be an idiot!” she snapped.
“What if I had brought up this picture? Gallead would be out of it. The whole damn smuggling operation would be out of it.
And Craig would have got off, and you know it. With out the smuggling, Craig has no motive worth a damn.
The Dodgsons have done everything in their power to get a quick conviction of Paula Kennerman. My God, Craig’s a murderer, Kay’s an accessory before and after the fact, and Rich is an accessory after the fact! They’ll give you Gallead in a basket to save their skins, and you need Gallead to start talking to save himself. He knows the difference between taking the rap for peddling an illicit drug and the rap for murder. No one knows what all I suspected, how much I actually know.
Keep them separated and they’ll all talk! I rather imagine they all think they have enough money stashed away to buy their way out of anything.” Her fury was increased by her awareness that she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
“Sit down, Barbara,” Judge Paltz said kindly. He nodded at his stenographer and clerk.
“I think you can go now, and see that someone brings in coffee, will you please?”
Heilbronner and his assistant moved toward the door.
“I’ll be going, too,” he said.
“Ms. Holloway, after court adjourns we’ll have to talk. I’ll want those doctors’ names, Miguel Torres, and the name and address of the woman who took the medication.”
“The doctors and Miguel,” she said.
“Not her, unless she comes forward.”
He regarded her for a moment, and then left without speaking again. But he would be back, she knew, and thought. Fuck him.
The jury took under an hour to bring in their verdict of not guilty, and the courtroom erupted; some of Dodgson’s people were loyal and loud, but most of them left as if dazed. Paula broke down in sobs, and her sister sobbed with her. Jurors pressed around, some patting Paula’s shoulder; one woman, also weeping, embraced her; one man shook her hand awkwardly and said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
When the crowd thinned out, Barbara said to her, “Go on with Lucille and get some rest, some fresh air, some good food. Give us a call when you’re rested. Dad has come up with a fist of real options for you to consider.
Okay?”
Paula nodded.
“Janey came to see me last night. She said she has a group, that I should think about joining it. I will, if I can afford it. She said I should start thinking about my future, what I want to do.”
“I think after you talk to Dad you’ll see that you can afford Janey’s group,” Barbara said.
“That’s a fine idea.”
“I want to go to school, do what Janey does, help other women and children,” Paula said, and then, without warning, she flung herself at Barbara, who held her and stroked her hair and did not mind at all that her nice silk jacket was getting tearstained.
she had been at the coast for three days. It was pointless even to wonder how many miles she had walked on the hard sand, how many dunes she had scrambled over, how many cliffs she had climbed up and down.
Now she stood at the cliff overlooking Little Whale Cove. Below, the water was so dark it looked bottomless.
Every day the weather had been calm and warm, the waves had been gentle, but on the horizon she could see a dark wall of clouds moving in, bringing a Pacific storm. She would wait for it, she decided, although earlier she had planned to go home this evening, after this last stop. First the storm, then home to her little miserable house, which was being repainted.
An erratic gust of wind swept her hair into her face, and she thought she should get some decent clothes, at least get her hair cut, look more like a respectable lawyer.
The water below was beginning to churn, as if in anticipation of the coming storm, as if the distant low-pressure area was already having an effect here. It was, she thought then; nothing was not connected. Last February she had stood here, rain and wind lashing her, and in February Carol Burnside had taken her photographs:
such isolated incidents, both necessary. Connected.
Below, a whitecap formed, vanished. Another rose.
“This is what I do,” she whispered into the gusting wind.
“This is what I am.” The words belonged out there with the note she had thrown into the sea.
She watched the churning water, the wind tangling her hair, until she finally turned to walk back to her car, to drive back to the rented cottage with a view of the ocean.
By the cottage door she saw Bill Spassero. She nodded as she got out of the car, and went to unlock the door.
“Dad told you,” she said.
“I kept pestering him, I’m afraid,” he said.
“He said I might as well carry a message. They’re all singing like trained birds. His words.” He spread his hands, palms up.
“No present,” he said.
“I don’t think there’s anything I could buy or steal or make that would impress you. I figured out what will, but it will take a long time.
First I have to learn how to be a good lawyer, and then I have to be the second-best lawyer in the state. A long time. You said you’d think about talking to me about the case.”
She laughed.
“Where are you staying?”
He pointed to another cottage.
“What I’m going to do,” she said, “is get a scarf and then go down to the beach and walk until sunset, or until the storm moves in, whichever comes first. If you want to take a walk, fine. But, Bill,” she added, “I’m not ready for anything else. Understood?”
He grinned a huge grin that made him look like a sophomore. As if he knew she was thinking this, he said, “When I’m ninety, you’ll be ninety-six.”
Then, with her scarf tied on, with a wind increasing from the sea, they walked on the beach, talking.