A Single Thread (Cobbled Court) (4 page)

I
don’t have e-mail or, for that matter, a computer. I don’t trust machines. When I want cash, I walk into the bank and let the teller know how much I need. And I’d open a vein before I’d ring up my own groceries on one of those automated check-out lines. But caller identification? The ability to see who is ringing and decide if it’s someone you want to talk to or to avoid? That’s one innovation I’ve embraced wholeheartedly.

Of course, technology does have its limitations. Even when the caller is someone you do wish to speak with, you can’t guarantee that the subject they’re calling to discuss is a welcome one. If such a thing were possible, I doubt I’d have picked up the phone that morning. But as soon as I looked at the screen and saw that Franklin was phoning, I picked up the receiver. I assumed he was calling to talk about the party.

“Franklin, you’re a darling! Thank you so much! You shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble, but it was a wonderful birthday. I had such a lovely time. Everyone else did too, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Abbie. They did. It was a great party.” His voice sounded distracted, but I didn’t think anything of it. Franklin is a founding partner of Spaulding, Ketchum, and Ryan, the largest law firm in the county. He was calling during business hours, so I assumed he was just thinking about business, as usual. He’s a very conscientious attorney, and a very good one. Part of the reason I never have to worry about my business is because I know I can count on Franklin to do it for me.

“It was, thanks to you. I was planning on phoning you a little later, but you beat me to it. Can you join me at the club for dinner tonight?” After he organized that entire soiree, treating Franklin to dinner was the least I could do; and besides, I always enjoy dining with Franklin. He makes me laugh.

“Yes, yes. Fine,” he said, but he sounded so preoccupied that I wondered if he’d really heard me. “Listen, Abbie. I’m downtown…. Actually, I’m at the city jail, and I need you to come down here. We’ve got a problem.”

I was shocked. “Franklin! Are you in jail?”

“No, no, Abbie. Not me. It’s Liza.”

I didn’t respond.

“Liza Burgess,” he repeated, questioning my memory.

“I know who she is, Franklin.”

He cleared his throat, treading lightly. “Sorry. I just didn’t…I know you’ve never actually met, so I—”

“Franklin,” I interrupted. “You said we have a problem. What is it?”

“Like I said, Liza’s in jail. She’s been arrested for shoplifting and will be appearing in front of a judge at ten-thirty.”

“And that would be a problem for me? Why?”

“For God’s sake, Abigail!” Apparently he was done treading lightly. “She’s your niece, your only living relative! Her mother is dead. She’s got nobody in the world besides you, Abbie. You’ve got to help her.”

Now it was my turn to be direct. “Actually, I have to do no such thing, Franklin. The girl may be my niece, but that’s simply an accident of biology. I’ve had nothing to do with her before, and I don’t see why her arrest changes that. It’s not my responsibility. After all,
I
didn’t steal anything. So I don’t see how any of this involves me.”

“You don’t? Well, how about this? In about forty-one minutes, your niece, Liza Burgess, is going to appear in front of a judge for shoplifting a sweater from a local boutique—a sweater, by the way, that she had more than enough money in her purse to pay for—and about five minutes after she walks into the courtroom, whatever bright, eager cub reporter is covering the crime beat in New Bern is going to figure out that the two of you are related. Then he’s going to race back to his desk and pound out a story, something about how the poor, orphaned daughter of Abigail Burgess Wynne’s estranged, deceased sister, Susan, has resorted to shoplifting for clothes while her aunt, the sixth wealthiest woman in the state, lives a life of luxury in her Proctor Street mansion. And there will be pictures. One of you, probably the portrait they have on file from the library dedication, and another of Liza, being led away in handcuffs. It will be front-page news, Abbie, and everyone in town will read it, but that will be just the beginning.

“Some other reporter, someone much more talented than our New Bern cub, someone from the
Times
or, worse yet,
the Daily News
, will spot the story and say to themselves, ‘Abigail Burgess Wynne? Wasn’t her name on the list of major donors to the Opera Ball?’ And then he’ll start digging. He’ll rent a car in the city and take a ride out to New Bern and start asking questions, questions about you, and Liza, and Susan. And the answers he’ll get will make him smile and think about putting in for a promotion, because he’ll know what he’s stumbled upon, Abigail. Stories like yours can run for months on end, because these are the ones the public just can’t get enough of—stories of the misery of the rich and famous or, if they are juicy enough, and this one is, stories of the misery of the merely rich. These are the stories that the tabloids love, the ones that feed their bottom line.

“So it doesn’t matter if you were the one who stuffed the sweater under your coat and walked out without paying or not, Abbie. This
is
your problem. And if you don’t get down to the courthouse in the next fifteen minutes, it’s going to be a much bigger one.”

Oh my God,
I thought,
he’s right. One way or another, I’m in this. Damn that stupid girl! And damn Franklin! What am I going to do?
My mind was racing.

“Abbie?” he asked. “Did you hear me?”

“I did. Meet me at the courthouse in seven minutes. At the side entrance. I don’t want anyone to see us come in. Find out who the judge will be.”

I was in luck. The judge was Harry Gulden. He and my late husband, Woolly, were college roommates. I’ve known Harry and his wife, Judy, for years. He agreed to hear Liza’s case in his chambers.

This is one of the advantages of living in a small town. When people know you personally, they’re more willing to put aside strict formalities and procedures that could serve no purpose but causing you embarrassment. Not bending the law, of course. I’d never ask Harry to do that. But as long as justice was served, Harry didn’t see what harm there would be in conducting private matters in private, especially since this was a first offense.

I sat perched on the edge of a chair in front of Harry’s desk while he went over the arrest report. Franklin was standing behind me along with a young attorney who introduced himself as Scott Corey; he was from the district attorney’s office.

It was everything I could do to sit still and keep quiet, as Franklin had said I must. A thousand questions ran through my mind. What in the world had possessed the girl to shoplift a sweater, especially when she had the money to pay for it? How did Franklin manage to get himself mixed up in this? And what was the girl doing in New Bern anyway? When Susan was alive, she and Liza lived in the opposite corner of the state in a townhouse in Stamford, where it was easy for Susan to commute to her job in New York. The last I’d heard, Liza was at college in Rhode Island, getting a degree in studio art, or design, or some such thing. I didn’t know much about my sister’s child, but I was aware of the basics of her living situation. I’d asked Franklin to keep an eye on them. Whatever was Liza doing in New Bern? And the biggest question of all, what was I, who’d never gotten so much as a speeding ticket, doing at the courthouse on what should have been a perfectly normal Friday morning?

I twisted in my chair and looked a question at Franklin, who was standing behind me, but he shook his head and frowned, silently warning me that I mustn’t risk saying anything in front of the judge or Mr. Corey that might hurt Liza’s case. I frowned back, impatient but grudgingly compliant. The door opened, and Liza was escorted into the room by a bailiff.

Judge Gulden looked over the tops of his glasses. “Thank you, Carolyn. You can leave this young lady with us,” he said, dismissing the bailiff.

Franklin was wrong. I had seen her before, but only once, when she was a baby. I’d never imagined her growing up to be so tall. But truth to tell, I’d never really imagined her at all. For the last nineteen years, I’d done my best to forget that she existed, and at my best I am very good indeed. Now there was no getting around it. The tall, slim young woman with the torn jean jacket, too-bleached blond hair, and brown eyes scowling from a face that looked disconcertingly like my own, did exist, and, like it or not, her life was now entangled with mine. Just how entangled was something I did not yet fully realize.

She looked quickly at me and then at Franklin. “What is she doing here?” she asked him. The directness of her inquiry and familiarity of her tone turned on the lights for me. She and Franklin knew each other—well. Before Franklin could respond, Judge Gulden motioned to the empty chair next to mine, indicating that Liza should take a seat. We both stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with each other.

“Your aunt came here to see if she could help you.” He slid his glasses back up his nose and looked at her case file.

“It seems you’ve gotten yourself into quite a predicament, Miss Burgess. The arrest report says that yesterday evening you strolled into the Kaplan’s Clothes Closet on Commerce Street and, after browsing around in a manner that made a store employee suspicious, stuffed this green sweater, valued at two hundred and seventy-nine dollars…”

Cashmere. Very nice. She might be a thief, but at least she was a thief with good taste.

“…under your coat and then left the store without paying. Is that what happened?” The judge looked at her pointedly, and Liza blushed. At least she had the good sense to be embarrassed by her behavior. Heaven knew I was.

“I…I guess I forgot to pay for it,” she mumbled, her soft, almost childish voice strangely at odds with her torn, tough-girl clothing and rock-and-roll hairstyle.

“Hmmm,” the judge replied, clearly unconvinced. “I suppose that’s why you started running down the street when the store clerk called for you to come back and pay, not stopping until you were apprehended by a police officer who was writing out a parking ticket. So, are you still saying it was all a big mistake?” Liza blushed even deeper, but she didn’t respond.

“I thought so.” Judge Gulden sighed and removed his glasses completely. “How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” she whispered.

“Miss Burgess, you have no prior record, and, in spite of yesterday’s events, you don’t seem like someone who is looking to lead a life of crime. I don’t wish to start you off on that road, nor do I wish to add to our already overcrowded prison population. However, this is a serious matter. I cannot simply let you leave here with a slap on the wrist.

“Because of your clean record and,” he said glancing at me, “because I know you come from a fine family with deep roots and a sterling reputation in the community, I am inclined to be lenient in this case. I’m sure the district attorney agrees with me.”

Behind me, Mr. Corey cleared his throat and shifted his feet, but didn’t say anything, which made me wonder how strong his agreement was. But I didn’t wonder much. I didn’t care how this might look to some junior lawyer in the D.A.’s office. I just wanted this whole sordid affair to be done with so Liza could go back to Rhode Island and I could get back to living my life. If that meant I needed to pay off whatever fine Harry was about to pronounce upon this black sheep of the family, so be it. No matter how much it cost me, it would be worth it ten times over to see the back of her.

Franklin cleared his throat. “Your Honor, given the circumstances, I’d like to suggest Accelerated Rehabilitation for Miss Burgess.”

“I agree,” said the judge.

“What’s Accelerated Rehabilitation?” Liza asked.

“It means that we can drop the charges,” Harry said. I felt my shoulders relax and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Liza’s do the same. “However,” he raised a warning finger, “we will only do so under the following conditions.

“First of all, you must pay a five hundred dollar fine. Also, you will be put on probation and must check in with your assigned probation officer according to the schedule he or she suggests. Finally, you must appear before me again in thirteen months. If, in that time, you have gotten into any trouble at all, even so much as having an overdue book at the library, then the charges against you will be reinstated. If that happens, then I assure you, you will be charged with fifth degree larceny, and you will go to jail. However, if you have stayed out of trouble, then the charges will be dropped and you will leave my courtroom with a completely clean record. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Liza said quietly. “Thanks.”

“Thank you, Harry.” I said at almost the same time. What a relief!

“Wait a minute!” Judge Gulden interrupted. “I’m not finished. Miss Burgess, I understand you are a student, is that right?”

I could feel Liza flinch next to me.

“I am…I mean…I was…”

I frowned. What was this? Had she dropped out of school?

Franklin answered for her. “Your Honor, until recently, Miss Burgess was working toward her degree in art. However, her circumstances have changed.”