Our office at the back of the store is a good place to be when I’m out of sorts. Over the years Joe Riddley and I have added computers and other modern equipment, but we’ve kept the oak rolltop desks, filing cabinets, and chairs his grandparents used, and the big wing chair by the window his parents added. Years ago I discarded the yellowed battered shade at the high window and put up blinds and a ruffle, so we’d get more light. That past Christmas, I’d had the wing chair, chair pads, and ruffle redone from red plaid to a print of quail and pheasants on a dark green background. Even with the skies streaming, the office was warm and homey.
Still, nobody had come in overnight and written on the wall what I should do next. I paid bills, chatted with a few customers, signed a couple of warrants, read gardening catalogues, and wished Joe Riddley would come back from the nursery so I’d at least have him to pick at. I was delighted when Walker finally called again.
“Hey, Mama. They’re out.”
“That’s wonderful. What happened?”
“It was real close for a minute. They got a judge who is rabid about drugs, so even after the lawyer explained what happened with the car and Maynard produced the receipt to show he’d just bought it, the judge hemmed and hawed about how this was not a light charge. Finally, bless her heart, Selena got all redheaded indignant and told him she feels exactly the same way about drugs, but was it fair to let whoever put drugs in their car ruin her honeymoon? Then—and this was the clincher—she demanded, ‘How would you feel if it was your daughter on her honeymoon caught in this mess?’ He blinked a couple of times, and set bond. Turns out that was a lucky shot. His daughter is getting married next month. If I ever get arrested, I want Selena on my side. The BMW is still confiscated, though.”
“Well, I’m proud to know you, son. You did good. But poor Maynard. He loves that car.”
“Yeah. The lawyer is gonna try to get it back, since they bought it in good faith, but he’s not real optimistic. I took them to rent another car, and I’m on my way home. I ought to be back for dinner. I’m leaving Orlando as we speak.”
“You aren’t talking on that cell phone while you’re driving, are you?”
“I love you, too, Mama. Good-bye.”
When I called Clarinda with the good news, her “That’s wonderful” sounded so much like mine, I wondered if we’d been together too long. She added, “I knew that boy and his sweet bride didn’t have anything to do with drugs.”
I’d barely hung up the second time when Ike called. “I hate like the dickens to bring this one to you, Judge, but Judge Stebley’s still laid up with his broken leg. I need you down at the detention center for a preliminary hearing. The charge is murder, against Humberto Garcia. We found a witness this morning who saw Garcia driving down Warner Road around ten Friday night, when he claims he was at the restaurant. Then Chief Muggins went back out to the crime scene this morning and turned up a book of matches we missed the first time. They’re from Garcia’s restaurant.”
In the face of evidence, judges don’t have a lot of discretion. I might feel like refusing to go. I might feel like demanding, “Have you and Chief Muggins gone plumb crazy?” I couldn’t. All I could do was haul myself out to do my duty.
Some storms seem to wash the whole town clean, but that particular rain was dingy and gray, revealing litter in the gutters and splashing mud from sidewalk planters all over the place. As I drove to the jail, Hopemore looked as gray and ugly as I felt.
Mr. Garcia looked gray, too. A face almost as gray as the jeans he wore with a white polo shirt. He turned away in great embarrassment when he saw me. Mrs. Garcia wore jeans and a yellow T-shirt. Her eyes pleaded with me to do something—anything—to make this shame go away.
Unhappiness made Isaac edgy and curt. “Here is the accused, Judge.” He handed me the paperwork, and I went around the high semicircular desk that serves as a bench for preliminary hearings held at the jail. When they built it, all the magistrates were tall. I have to climb up on a box.
“I am Judge MacLaren Yarbrough,” I informed the accused as I am required by law to do. “Magistrate for Hope County, Georgia. What is your name?”
He replied, bewildered, “Humberto Garcia. You know me.”
“Yes, but it is required that I establish your identity for the record. This is a preliminary hearing. You are charged with the willful murder of Fergus MacDonald. Have you read and do you understand the warrant?”
“I did not kill anyone,” Mr. Garcia protested. “I was never on that road in my life. I—”
“All that will come up before the superior-court judge,” I informed him. “For now, have you read and do you understand the charges against you?”
“Yes.” He said it as if he were about to break into another protest, so I spoke quickly.
“Because this is a murder charge, and I am a magistrate, I cannot set bond on this charge. It has to be set by a superior-court justice. I will notify the superior court in Augusta and they will send a judge down to set your bond.”
“How long will that take?” Mrs. Garcia asked the question, shaking so hard she had to sit in one of the hard chairs to the side of the desk.
“About a week, normally.”
“Madre de dios!”
she whispered, and covered her face with her hands.
“A week?” Mr. Garcia turned pale. “My restaurant will die in a week. I can’t—I didn’t—You say Mr. MacDonald was found on a dirt road off Warner Road. We live on Warner Road, so yes, I must have driven past the road on which he was found. But I never drive on any dirt roads. I don’t want to mess up my car. And I did not leave matches near his body. Would I be that foolish? I swear it on my mother’s grave.”
The words poured out like the torrent pouring just beyond the front door, where the builder had not adequately anchored the gutter, but I could not pay him the least bit of attention.
Isaac said in his bass voice, “We’re gonna need to process you now.”
Mrs. Garcia started weeping. Her husband turned and spoke to her gently in Spanish, then pulled her to her feet and embraced her.
Isaac sidled closer to the bench and muttered, “You and God had better get to work.”
As he was led away, Mr. Garcia turned to ask me in despair, “How can you prove where you have not been?”
Rosa said much the same thing when she called thirty minutes after I got back to my desk. Her mother had called her at school to tell her that her father had been arrested. Rosa called me, crying and praying to every saint in the Catholic calendar. “What are we going to do?” she finally demanded. “My father never killed anybody.”
“He was seen on Warner Road around ten,” I reminded her. “He told Chief Muggins he was at the restaurant all evening.”
“I know. He was only gone a few minutes. My dress got soaked when Skellton crashed into me and
Mami
was afraid I would catch cold, but she didn’t want me to drive so late alone, so
Papi
said he would fetch another dress while I chatted with customers.” She ran out of sentence and breath at the same time.
I sighed, wishing I could offer more comfort. “You’ll get to say all that in court, and produce your witnesses. Get them lined up, comfort your mother, and pray that the real killer is found. That’s the best I can suggest.” I hung up, real discouraged.
I know Ben Franklin said, “God helps those who help themselves,” but I’ve found that God offers a lot more help when I can’t help myself. I locked my door to keep anybody from walking in and thinking I was crazier than I am, and I spoke out loud. “Okay, God, you know whether Humberto Garcia killed Skye MacDonald, but I don’t believe he did. I don’t want to think Skell did it, either, but you know I am terrified he may have. I’m not asking for more than I need here, but if there’s something I ought to be doing, I need a nudge in the right direction. Please.” It wasn’t as eloquent as a preacher in the pulpit, but God didn’t create me eloquent, just determined.
Feeling better now that I’d shifted the burden to stronger shoulders, I started entering checks we’d written the past week and hadn’t yet put on the computer.
God speaks in mysterious ways. Sometimes after I pray, I get a brilliant idea from somebody else who isn’t that smart. Occasionally I get a brilliant idea of my own—and I’m not that smart, either. Sometimes a new verse shows up in my Bible right in the middle of a passage I’ve read a hundred times. Sometimes I get a dream that contains the kernel of truth I need. And sometimes, something or somebody triggers a memory.
That day, I was entering checks from Joe Riddley’s checkbook, including the one to help pay for Maynard’s car, when I remembered something Laura said Saturday afternoon about how furious Skell’s assistant manager was that he hadn’t showed up.
That thought kept pestering me like a kitten at my knee. Finally I put down my pen and looked at it from all sides. I could see an employee getting annoyed if the owner didn’t come in when she or he was supposed to. But furious enough to complain to another member of the owner’s family? Either that employee was an old trusted friend of the family—and I didn’t think anybody stuck around Sky’s the Limit that long—or this was odd. At the least, it was a loose end.
I picked up the phone and punched in Gwen Ellen’s number.
“Hey, Tansy? How’re you doin’ today? And how’s Gwen Ellen?”
“Hey, Miss MacLaren. We’re both keepin’ on keepin’ on, which is ’bout all we
can
do. Seems like the very skies are cryin’ for Mr. Skye, don’t it?”
“It sure does. Listen, is Laura down there right now, or up in her own place?”
“Sittin’ right here eatin’ cookies and drinkin’ coffee to work up her courage. Here.”
“Hey, Mac.” Laura’s voice came over the line, deep and glum. But she hadn’t forgotten her manners, whatever might be the matter. “I sure appreciated your being with me yesterday. We all left in such a hurry, I didn’t tell you.”
“Glad to be there. What are you working up your courage for?”
She gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Nicole’s coming at twelve to cut my hair. Wish me luck. I am terrified.”
“I told you, honey, if you don’t like it, it will grow. Listen, Saturday you said there was a salesman over at Sky’s the Limit who was mad at Skell for not coming in. Do you remember?”
“Sure. Skell’s assistant manager, Jimmy Bratson. He was scheduled to work noon till six on Friday and have Saturday off. When he came in at noon, he found Skell had overslept and not gotten there until just before he did; then Skell left to see Daddy and never came back. Jimmy must have called five times between five and six, antsier than a bare-foot baby on a hot sidewalk, asking where Skell was and saying he couldn’t stay to close, he had important things to do. I had to tell him, of course, that he’d have to stay until Skell came. I couldn’t be in two places at once. When I had to call him again Saturday to come in, and had to tell him I still didn’t know where Skell was, he was fit to be tied.” She sighed. “Between you, me, and the kitchen table, Jimmy Bratson is not one of my favorite employees. He thinks a bit too highly of himself. But he and Skell get along, and that’s what counts.”
Joe Riddley came in just then, bringing me a cup of coffee. I knew better than to say more about Jimmy Bratson right then. “Laura,” I mouthed so Joe Riddley would know who I was talking to, then asked her, “Have you heard from Skell again?”
“Not a word. When I finally get my hands on that brother of mine—”
I heard Tansy remonstrating with her in the background, so asked hastily, “How’s your mother doing today?”
“As well as can be expected. She’s had so many people to bear up for, she’s not had much time to grieve yet.”
“You all might want to take some time and get away after this is over.”
“I guess we might.” Laura didn’t sound too enthusiastic.
“My guess is you are itching to do what I’d want to do in your circumstances, honey—go back to your desk and work, work, work. Maybe Skell can take her somewhere, when he gets back.”
A common thought seemed to hang between us on the wire—if Skell wasn’t in jail awaiting trial. I hurried to change the subject. “Good luck with your haircut. It may make a new woman out of you.”
“Or something,” Laura agreed, glum again.
“Let me talk to your mother, if she’s up to talking.”
“Oh, she’s up to anything right now. It’s lunchtime I’m a bit worried about. Tansy has a doctor’s appointment she needs to keep—you know how hard they are to get. I’ll be having my hair cut, and all our relatives have left. It will be the first time Mama’s been alone in the house since Saturday.”
I knew how big and empty a house can seem when its rooms are swelled by grief. “Let me talk to her for a minute.” When Gwen Ellen came to the phone, I suggested, “How about if I stop by Myrtle’s at twelve, get us both a chicken-salad plate, and bring it over there for lunch?”
“You don’t need to bring food. People have been so nice; the kitchen is full. I’ll make a pot of tea.” She hadn’t said I didn’t need to come.
17
Gwen Ellen greeted me looking almost as dead as Skye. Crescents beneath her eyes were so dark they looked like bruises. Except for makeup, her face was pale. Her shoulders slumped in a tan wool dress Skye had helped her choose on a trip to New York a year before. “That dress makes you look slender as a teenager,” I greeted her, hoping to get a smile.
Instead, she held up her right hand, on which she wore the big diamond Laura had found in the safe. “I’ve lost weight. Skye bought this just before he died.” Her voice quavered. She held the ring toward the kitchen window, but the day was too gray to make rainbows. “It’s gorgeous, but look how loose it is.” She moved it easily up and down her finger. “I’ll need to get it resized.”
“Grief can do that to you. I lost a few pounds back in August, when Joe Riddley was so sick.” Looking for a cheerier topic, I added, “But that new haircut makes you look thirty-five.”