Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (5 page)

Because either Craig Matthews was guilty of his wife’s murder or he’d been cleverly lured to the death scene.

To me, the strongest argument for Craig’s innocence was the Johnny-on-the-spot phone call that brought the authorities to the site just after Craig arrived home.

It wouldn’t impress the police.

Police everywhere receive a lot of phone tips. The calls can be accurate as hell, but the callers are not necessarily involved in the crimes they report. Many anonymous tipsters are semi-good citizens. They want to see justice done, but they definitely don’t want to get involved.

A simple scenario could account for that phone tip: A neighbor observed Craig’s arrival at the house, perhaps heard a noisy quarrel, and called.

A variation on that theme could account for the call even if Craig’s story was true: A neighbor came to the house before Craig arrived, found Patty Kay’s body, then scurried off to call the police but avoid involvement.

So the phone tip could have occurred whether Craig was guilty or innocent.

But clearly the phone tip could have been part of a clever plan to frame Craig.

I made my decision.

When I called Margaret, I didn’t tell her not to worry. She wasn’t a fool. But I promised to help Craig.

I changed from my holiday slacks and cotton top to a crimson linen suit with a jewel-necked jacket and a pleated
skirt, a crisp white blouse, and matching red pumps. As a fashion writer I once knew would have trilled, “Faux pearl earrings and necklace completed the ensemble.” If I do say so myself, I looked elegant and absolutely trustworthy. It took me five more minutes to pack, then I was on the road to Fair Haven and traveling fast.

At the outskirts of Fair Haven, I stopped at a convenience store and bought the afternoon paper.

This headline was crisp:

Craig had said:
There was blood everywhere. I didn’t see a weapon
.

Now eyewitnesses claimed they saw him toss away the gun that killed his wife.

Obviously, another lie by Craig.

So what else was new?

In Craig’s recital to me there was no mention of a gun or that surreptitious stop.

I didn’t feel quite that I had been played for a fool. But
I certainly had to accept the fact that Craig Matthews had been less than candid.

The police would argue that the only reason to lie would be guilt.

But it could be fear, came the whip-quick thought.

I lifted an eyebrow. Somewhere within me lurked a champion for Craig Matthews.

Craig Matthews. A civilized, delicate face. And frightened eyes. Not a very truthful man. The police discoveries surely augmented that judgment.

All right. But there were facts in his favor. And being a liar can indicate either poor character or stupidity, but it hardly equates with being a murderer.

I’d driven fast. I was glad. If anything could be done for Margaret’s nephew, it had to be done quickly.

As a reporter I learned some horrifying truths about our legal system. I don’t call it our system of justice. It is, instead, an often haphazard process relentlessly affected by the participants, who can be bright, stupid, indolent, industrious, incompetent, or brilliant.

If you question that, read some true crime books. Or go down to the courthouse and sit in on a murder trial. Either exposure should scare the bejesus out of you.

Bottom line: The cops wouldn’t be trying to clear Craig; they would be busy amassing evidence so the D.A. could get a murder conviction.

I wasn’t a cop. Or a private detective.

But there’s no law against asking questions.

For whatever reason.

As I drove on into town, I spotted Patty Kay Matthews’s bookstore. Books, Books, Books was housed in a large redbrick building across the street from the upscale Fair Haven Mall. I had a swift appreciation of Patty Kay’s abilities as a businesswoman. Malls aren’t it in the 1990s. Separate shops with plenty of parking and easy access definitely are.

It was another couple of miles on tree-shaded Henry Avenue to the turnoff that led directly to the heart of old Fair Haven. As I neared downtown, plenty of bronze plaques attested to protected historic homes, both antebellum and Victorian. I parked near the town square. As always, I’m stiff when I first get out of a car after traveling. I gingerly stretched, admiring the worn granite statue of a Confederate soldier and the recently painted brickfront buildings, the colors ranging from apricot to gray to mauve.

I stopped first at a small cottage with a gilt sign proclaiming the Fair Haven Historic Society. I came out with maps, a history, and a quick summary of the efforts that
had gone into refurbishing downtown and making it a tourist mecca. Patty Kay Prentiss Matthews’s name was all over the brochures.

Fair Haven can’t compete historically with neighboring Franklin, of course, home of the Carter House which was so central to the anguishing Battle of Franklin. Five hours of fierce fighting on November 30, 1864, resulted in 6,552 Confederate dead, 2,326 Union dead. But Fair Haven has its own grim stories of war, including brave women who carried information past Union troops beneath hoop-skirts and a handsome Confederate spy hung by the Yankees while a sobbing maiden looked on.

Today Fair Haven’s nineteenth-century main street was home to antique stores, funky little shops selling everything from handmade quilts to homemade jams and candies, and, of course, to Fair Haven’s most prestigious law firms.

The offices of Desmond Marino, Counselor at Law, were on the second floor of a mauve brick building at the corner of Main and First. I opened the frosted glass door and stepped out of the nineteenth into the late twentieth century.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell the office of a successful lawyer from the reception area in an upscale funeral home. The same ice-toned gray predominates in the drapes, walls, and carpets, enlivened occasionally by a discreet flash of gold in a vase or painting. The subliminal message is that silver and gold are our ultimate objective, whether in the streets of heaven or on those of earth.

Desmond Marino’s Oxford suit was gray too, with the merest hint of a muted crimson stripe. His Hermès tie was jovial in comparison, a vivid carmine with a gold medallion pattern. One of those absurdly expensive watches glittered on his left wrist.

Marino had an interesting face, part monkey, part raccoon.
A bright intelligence was apparent in the coal-dark eyes, wily caution evident in his careful smile.

Not that Marino was smiling overmuch after the initial though suitably muted (the circumstances) warmth of his greeting to Craig Matthews’s aunt (me) after his secretary, slim and blond in a gray silk sheath, showed me in.

I hoped to find out a great deal from Desmond Marino, but there was one urgent question.

“Where is Patty Kay’s daughter?”

“Oh, Brigit’s okay. She’s home.”

“In that house. By herself?”

Desmond Marino looked surprised. “She lives with her dad. Didn’t you know that?”

Fake aunthood obviously was going to have many pitfalls. “Oh, I suppose I misunderstood a recent letter from Craig. I thought Brigit had moved back with her mother and Craig.”

“Not likely.”

I needed to get away from this subject pronto. I managed a smile. “I’m so glad I misunderstood. So there’s no one at the house now?”

“That’s right. Unless I can get bail for Craig.”

“What are the chances?”

Marino waggled his hand. “Maybe so, maybe no. Judge Lehman’s hard to figure. We’re on his docket for tomorrow. The thing of it is, Craig’s in a tough spot, Mrs. Collins. Not only did the police find the murder weapon where he’d dumped it, they’ve got the shirt he wore that day and it’s—”

“Bloodstained. I know.”

“The gun is his, one of a pair of Smith and Wesson .38 handguns he and Patty Kay owned. And his footprints are all over the place in the kitchen and the playhouse.”

“How about Patty Kay’s footprints?”

The lawyer looked puzzled.

I was patient. “In the kitchen. Are her footprints in the mess from the cheesecake? And how about on the path to the playhouse?”

“That damned cheesecake.”

It wasn’t responsive to my questions but the exasperation in his voice intrigued me. I would pursue it in a moment. Right now I wanted to know if Patty Kay’s shoes had also tracked sticky remnants of the dessert.

I repeated my questions.

“How would I know?” He was perplexed.

“Haven’t you been to the crime scene?”

He looked horrified. “God, no. That’s for the police.”

This man wouldn’t win anybody’s defense-lawyer-of-the-year award with that attitude.

“Mr. Marino, at this moment the police are looking solely for evidence to convict my nephew Craig. Nothing else interests them.”

Anybody who thinks cops carefully peruse all evidence, keeping an open mind as to a suspect’s guilt as they do so, probably believes politicians seek the greater good instead of snapping at the best deal for their constituency (i.e., themselves). Once an arrest is made, the cops are trying to build a case. All other evidence is extraneous.

“Mrs. Collins,” Marino inquired briskly, “what does that have to do with Patty Kay’s footprints?”

“Quite a bit. If her footprints are in that mess, obviously the cheesecake was thrown at the ceiling while she and her murderer were in the kitchen. If there are no footprints from Patty Kay, what does that tell us?”

It didn’t come quickly enough to make him a star pupil, but it came. “She wasn’t in the kitchen when the cheesecake splattered?”

I nodded encouragingly. “And?”

“If she wasn’t in the kitchen …” His brow crinkled. “Was she already shot?”

“Yes.”

“But why would anybody throw …” His face flattened out like a man who’d just taken a fist in the gut. “Oh, God.”

Flashing neon couldn’t have made it clearer that the lawyer had a story to tell about Patty Kay’s famous dessert. “So what about the cheesecake?”

“It was bad enough—what I thought before. But now …” The bright eyes peered at me unhappily. “You see, I was afraid the police would hear about last week and—and think Patty Kay and Craig had a fight.”