Antiques Swap (7 page)

At the food bar, I filled my plate with breakfast items, only to reach hot lunch dishes at the end that made me question my selections. This was a lesson I seemed incapable of learning, like so many Sunday morning lessons. And the only Button Factory restraint I burdened myself with was limiting the buffet trips to one.

By the time I returned to our table, the others had been served their first course of salad and/or soup, so I didn't feel bad about digging in.

Cora, petite retired court secretary prone to bird-like head movements, said, “I have it on good authority that Vanessa recently consulted an out-of-town lawyer about how to break that nasty prenuptial agreement Wes imposed upon her.”

I asked, “
How
nasty?”

“I hear it states that she got not a centavo unless they had a child.”

“That seems pretty medieval.”

“Well, it's a Sinclair family thing. Family business.”

Mother was silent; her modus operandi here was to sit back and listen, and benefit from her friends' chattiness . . . and my natural curiosity.

Frannie, slender, part-time nurse with short, wiry gray hair, chimed in, “And I happen to know from someone in OBGYN—I won't say
who
—that Vanessa could never conceive due to . . .” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “. . . a botched abortion she had in college.”

Norma, overweight socialite wearing too much makeup, commented, “Their former cleaning lady now works for me, and let me tell you . . .” No whispers for Norma. “. . . she said they had
wiiiild
parties at that mansion of theirs.”

I asked, “What kind of wild parties?”

Norma blinked at me indignantly. “Well, I wasn't about to
pry!
”

Only Alice, retired English teacher with dyed brown hair showing an inch of white outgrowth, had nothing to offer.

Maybe Mother should consider replacing her.

Mother, satisfied that she'd gathered everything pertinent these sources had to offer, deftly turned the conversation to a topic close to her heart: herself. Specifically, how she had come to find the body. As she described the bloody scene, the girls were unswayed in their chowing down.

Seemed like a good opportunity to go back to the buffet for those lunch items I'd missed. Shut up.

When, an hour later, Mother and an overstuffed yours truly arrived home, Sushi was waiting inside the front door with her leash in her mouth. Ever since she got her sight back, I'd been taking the pooch for a walk after each meal as exercise for both of us and a little quiet time for me.

But I'd come to almost dread these once-joyful little jaunts along the neighborhood sidewalks. You see, Sushi had total recall of every spot where she had ever seen a squirrel or rabbit or chipmunk, which made our walks a start and stop, herky-jerky process. Added to that was her need to sniff every blade of grass to determine what other dogs had been by, which turned a ten-minute excursion into half an hour.

So I was a little crabby upon our return when an overly excited Mother jumped into my path like a demented jack-in-the-box.

“Wes wants to see you!” she practically shouted, her eyes frighteningly large behind the lenses. I made a mental note to check her medication.

I frowned. “Isn't he in jail? At least till after the arraignment tomorrow?”

Mother grinned in Christmas-morning glee. “Yes, dear, but Sheriff Rudder has given the okay for you to visit the prisoner.”

“Why would he? I'm hardly family, and not exactly a lawyer.”

“Do we care? The Sinclairs have pull, dear. Anyway, aren't you anxious to hear what Wes has to say?”

“Not particularly.”

She put her hands on her hips and peered down at me like a queen who wished she had a better class of subjects. “I thought Wes was your old and dear
friend.
”

“Some friend! He tried to put the old and dear
blame
on me, remember? Telling the police he didn't know anything about the sale of those beer signs! What a creep he turned out to be.”

“Maybe he just wants a chance to explain. To get back in your good graces. Brandy, don't let this opportunity pass us . . . that is,
you
. . . by!”

She was getting agitated. And an agitated Mother is never a good thing.

“Oh,
fine.
I'll go. If it'll stop you harping.”

“Watch the frown lines, dear! Once carved they are not easily erased.”

Soon I was in the Caddy, tooling downtown, before wheeling into the parking lot that the county jail shared with our police station.

Mother had campaigned tirelessly for this new state-of-the-art county jail. After spending several short stints in the crumbling old bug-infested hoosegow, she came to the compassionate conclusion that the prisoners deserved better—especially if that prisoner was Vivian Borne.

From the outside, lacking either wire fence or guardhouse, the two-story octagon-shaped structure might have been a medical center or private business. Only the small, barred windows running along the second floor suggested otherwise.

I went through the glass double front doors and into a large area with white-colored walls and industrial gray carpeting. In the center of the room were two rows of bucket-shaped chairs, back to back, and beyond that, a walk-through metal detector for visitors entering the jail. This could have been any airport waiting area, right down to the vending machines, were it not for the bulletproof window to my right, behind which a male deputy monitored computers.

I approached the window, then spoke into its microphone. “Brandy Borne to see Sheriff Rudder, please.”

Not that I didn't believe Mother, but I wanted to hear from the big man himself that Wes really wanted to see me, and that the sheriff truly was fine with that.

The young crew-cut blond deputy, his good looks marred by pockmarks, swivelled toward me. “I'll let him know, Ms. Borne.” And he reached for a phone.

I retreated to the row of bucket seats, all empty, as was the rest of the waiting area, taking the one nearest the door next to the bulletproof window. Before too long, the sheriff stepped out.

Tall and burly, oozing confidence, Sheriff Rudder reminded me a little of John Wayne, particularly if I wasn't wearing my contacts. He had that same sideways stride, too, as he came toward me. Or maybe, like Mother, he just had corns.

He looked unhappy to be working. Well, it was Sunday. Of course, he never looked happy to see me and/or Mother.

“You can have five minutes,” he growled.

“With you?”

“No! With Mr. Sinclair. In the visitors' booth.”

“What does he want?”

“How should I know? Five minutes. I'll get someone to take you through.”

Rudder turned abruptly and went back through the side door.

I sat and waited some more, hoping the “someone” would not be Deputy Patty, who hadn't been particularly nice to Mother and me during our thirty-day stint here last year.

The door opened again.

Patty.

In her forties, rather plain, with short dishwater blond hair, the woman had a sullenness that said she got all the crappy assignments. Which at the moment included dealing with me.

I deposited my purse in a wall locker, went through the metal detector—Mother always sets it off, due to her extensive bridgework—then Patty walked me through two sets of locked security doors and into an area consisting of three separate visitors' stations. These small rooms were similar to those used by bank safe-deposit customers.

She ushered me into one, I took a chair in front of the Plexiglas window, and she retreated outside the cubicle, allowing me . . . soon to be “us” . . . some privacy.

The minutes crawled by, and my eyelids were just getting heavy when the door on the other side of the glass opened, and Wes entered, followed by a burly guard in a tan uniform. Unlike Patty, this guard did not relinquish his charge, but did move an unobtrusive distance away.

Wes slid into the chair opposite me. He looked terrible—face ashen, unshaved, eyes red and puffy, hair uncombed. His shirt and slacks were wrinkled, probably the clothes he'd had on when he'd been arrested late last night.

He leaned forward, his manner dejected, speaking through the holes in the glass. “Thanks for coming, Brandy.”

I nodded.

He swallowed, reading my displeasure. “I wanted to apologize if anything I said to the police caused you trouble.”

“You mean about the beer signs?”

“Yes.” He leaned forward even more, his nose almost touching the Plexiglas. “I honestly didn't know Vanessa was selling those things. They're nothing I would ever want to get rid of. I can only assume that she was trying to get back at me for . . . I don't know,
something
.”

“Something like seeing you and me together at the swap meet?”

He sighed again. Nodded glumly.

I shrugged. “Guess I kind of figured as much. No apology necessary, Wes. You have enough to worry about.”

He shifted in his chair. “That's only part of why I wanted to see you.”

I waited. This was his party.

“I understand Wayne Ekhardt is your lawyer. . . .”

“Yes. Mine and Mother's. Why?”

“Well, I'd like to know what you think about having him represent me at the preliminary hearing.”

My eyes snapped open wide. “You're not serious.”

“I am.”

“He's almost
ninety.
”

“I know. But he's the most famous criminal lawyer in the Midwest. He got that woman off who outright murdered her husband.”

“Well, yeah, fifty years ago. Why, did you outright murder Vanessa?”

“No! No . . .” His head lowered and he covered his eyes with a hand.

“Wes, Mr. Ekhardt is the finest lawyer in Serenity, maybe the state . . . if this were 1975. But today? He's lucky to stay awake in court.” Now I leaned forward, saying earnestly, “You must have a fleet of top-notch lawyers you use for your company. Any one of them would be a better choice.”

Wes shook his head. “No. They're
corporate
attorneys.”

I spread my hands. “So have them help you get the best criminal lawyer in the country—you can afford it. I mean . . . you're being tried for
murder.
”

Wes blinked back tears. “Brandy, I
didn't
kill Vanessa. Do you really think . . . ? I wouldn't . . . I couldn't. Things weren't perfect between us, but I love her. Loved her. Brandy, please. You've
got
to believe me.”

I heard myself say, “I do.”

He let out a huge relieved sigh. “You don't know how much that means to me.”

“What I believe isn't important. What is important is that you get proper representation.”

“It's just the preliminary hearing. If it goes to trial, maybe one of my corporate lawyers will have another recommendation.”

The guard said, “Time.”

As Wes stood, I said, “Please don't use Ekhardt. Even just for that hearing.”

“Sorry, Brandy—I've made up my mind. Wayne Ekhardt was my father's lawyer, and I've known him since childhood. I trust him. Age isn't an issue.”

“Well,
sure
it is!”

He shook his head. Gave me a sad little smile. “Thanks for coming. Means the world.”

I staggered out of there feeling numb and disturbed. I could think of only one person who would be pleased by Wes's choice of counsel.

I lived with her, and I don't mean Sushi.

 

 

 

To avoid jamming the vendor aisles, use proper walking etiquette at a swap meet—always stick to the right, as if you were driving a car. However, do not, as Mother has been known to do, carry a Harpo-like horn to clear the way.

Chapter Five

A Trick

(
Set of four cards played by each player during a hand.
)

T
he day following my visit to the county jail, Wes had his arraignment, where a plea of Not Guilty was entered by Wayne Ekhardt. The preliminary hearing, which was required to take place within a few days, was set for Wednesday morning.

Mother, using her connections at the courthouse, was able to get us seats, with Joe Lange once again pressed into service to run the shop in our absence.

(For those of you who have not learned courtroom procedure from having watched the wonderful old
Perry Mason
TV show, a preliminary hearing determines whether or not the state, or prosecuting attorney, has enough evidence to convince the judge to take the case to trial.)

The hearing was held in a secondary courtroom on the second floor of the Serenity Courthouse, a late nineteenth-century edifice of Grecian grandeur that (in part because of Mother and her historical preservation–leaning pals) had been spared architectural genocide.

Thanks to Vivian Borne's various vehicular infractions, I'd been in this courtroom many times, but that didn't give me a warm fuzzy comfortable feeling. Traffic court had just been let out, and the anxiety of those called to justice still lingered in the air like the smell of drying varnish.

We found two seats in the back row, and felt lucky to have them, the courtroom quickly filling up with the defendant's friends and business associates, along with a gaggle of reporters. Normally such a hearing might at best attract representatives of the local paper and radio station. But the Sinclair name had brought in media from all around the area.

Though the window air conditioner chugged away, doing its best to stave off the rising temperature outside, the room was noticeably warm, thanks to accumulating body heat inside. People spoke in hushed tones, some fidgeting in their uncomfortable wooden pews.

Wayne Ekhardt and District Attorney Jason Nesbit were already present, seated at separate oak tables. I could only see his back, but Ekhardt appeared more frail than ever, his head shaking a little, bony frame sunken into his too-large, navy pinstriped suit, a boy swimming in his father's clothes.

The DA was a young hotshot, slender, with dark hair overly styled with product, glasses with invisible wire frames, and a fashionable two-day stubble on his narrowly handsome face. All this was wrapped up in a light gray number that could not have been purchased locally. He fussed with his papers while Ekhardt's head bowed in slumber.

Seated in the pew behind Nesbit were the prosecutor's two witnesses: Officer Mia Cordona and Gladys Fowler, a neighbor of the Sinclairs. Brian Lawson was also there, and it might not be a stretch to say the interim chief's reputation hinged on the outcome of the hearing.

A side door next to the judge's bench opened and Her Honor swept in, long black robe flapping like Batman's cape. Judge Jones—middle-aged, African American, hair tinged with gray (some of that put there by Mother)—assumed her regal place behind the raised bench.

This judge was the one who had given Mother and me a thirty-day jail sentence last year for breaking and entering (
Antiques Chop
), which annoyed Mother because we had solved a murder case doing so, and made me furious because I gained ten pounds on fattening jailhouse food.

The side door opened again and a burly male bailiff in a tan uniform marched into the room, an army of one, taking a rigid position next to the Stars and Stripes on its sturdy pole. Despite the man and the flag, I somehow managed not to salute.

Ekhardt slumped at the table, a tired student sleeping in class. I shot Mother a concerned look, but she waved a dismissive hand, her confidence in the old warhorse unshakable.

“He's just playing possum, dear,” she whispered.

Stern-faced Judge Jones caught the eye of the bailiff, nodded, and the uniformed man stepped back to the side door and opened it.

Wes—the disheveled prisoner of the other day now a well-groomed handsome figure in a black Armani suit—stepped in, accompanied by Deputy Patty. If Wes was disturbed by the sight of his slumbering counsel, he didn't betray it—face calm, he seemed almost serene as he was escorted to his place next to Ekhardt.

Judge Jones banged her gavel. “The court will come to order.”

This, of course, woke Mr. Ekhardt, who brought himself up into his suit with a start.

(Mother insists that the court hearing appear here in transcript form for the sake of authenticity.)

Judge:
This is a preliminary hearing for the State of Iowa vs. Wesley Sinclair III, case number IA-95121. Would each counsel give his name and appearance for the record?

Nesbit:
Jason Nesbit, prosecuting attorney for the state.

Ekhardt
: (Unintelligible.)

Judge:
I'm sorry, sir. You're going to have to speak up.

Ekhardt:
Wayne Ekhardt, counsel for the defendant.

Judge:
Call your first witness, Mr. Nesbit.

Nesbit:
Mia Cordona to the stand.

(Mia Cordona sworn in.)

Nesbit:
You were the first officer on the scene?

Cordona:
Yes, well, me and my partner Officer Cassato, but I went inside the house first.

Nesbit:
And how long have you been on the force?

Ekhardt:
Objection. Irrelevant and immaterial.

Unidentified Voice:
Not to mention incompetent!

Judge:
Who said that? Bailiff?

Bailiff:
Ah . . . a woman in the back. Vivian Borne, I think, Your Honor.

Judge:
Who let
her
in?

Vivian Borne
(standing)
:
My apologies, Your Eminence—that is, Your Honor. I pledge henceforth to be as quiet as a church mouse.

Judge:
See that henceforth you are. Or you'll be out on your (unintelligible).

Court Reporter:
Excuse me, Your Honor, did you say “ear” or “rear”? For the record.

Judge:
Ah. Ear. Where were we?

Nesbit:
I was trying to establish the credibility of Miss Cordona, when Mr. Ekhardt objected.

Judge:
Yes, all right. Overruled.

Nesbit:
Again, Miss Cordona, how long have you been with the police department?

Cordona:
Eight years last month.

Nesbit:
Then you've been among the first responders at the scene of other murders.

Cordona:
Yes . . . well, a few.

Nesbit:
So when you arrived at the home of Vanessa Sinclair, and saw the body, there was no doubt in your mind that the woman had been murdered.

Judge:
Mr. Ekhardt? Are you going to object to that? Bailiff . . . I think defense counsel has nodded off. It is warm in here.

Ekhardt:
I'm awake, Your Honor. Merely mulling the district attorney's question. Objection. Leading the witness.

Judge:
Sustained.

Nesbit:
Let me rephrase that. When you saw the body, what was your professional opinion?

Cordona:
That Mrs. Sinclair had suffered blunt-force trauma to the head. Fatally.

Nesbit:
Which gave you probable cause to search the premises?

Ekhardt:
Again, leading the witness.

Judge:
I'll overrule that.

Cordona:
That is correct.

Nesbit:
And what did you find?

Cordona:
A man's shirt with bloodstains in the trash can behind the house.

Nesbit:
I move for admission of this shirt as evidence number one.

Judge:
Objection?

Ekhardt:
No.

Nesbit:
I further move for admission as evidence number two, the lab report from the DNA sample taken from said shirt showing that the blood was that of Vanessa Sinclair.

Judge:
Objection?

Ekhardt:
No.

Nesbit:
Your witness, Mr. Ekhardt.

Judge:
Mr. Ekhardt? Cross-examination?

Ekhardt:
Yes.

Judge:
Mr. Ekhardt, do you need assistance in approaching the stand? Or would you like to cross-examine from your seat?

Ekhardt:
No, Your Honor, I can make it. Just give me a few moments.

(Defense counsel approaches the witness stand.)

Ekhardt:
Miss Cordona, have you ever worn a man's shirt?

Nesbit:
Objection to relevance!

Judge:
Sustained.

Ekhardt:
I'll rephrase. Have you ever worn a man's-
style
shirt?

Nesbit:
Your Honor, apparently defense counsel didn't hear you.

Judge:
Mr. Ekhardt, where are you going with this?

Ekhardt:
Where I'm going, Your Honor, is to contend that exhibit number one does
not
belong to my client, which can be easily demonstrated, if he strips to the waist.

Nesbit:
Your Honor! I object to this kind of courtroom theatrics!

Judge:
Overruled. Mr. Ekhardt, you may proceed. But let's try just holding the shirt up to Mr. Sinclair. Mr. Sinclair, would you rise?

Ekhardt:
As you can see, the sleeves are too short, and the width too narrow.

Judge
(banging gavel)
:
Silence—if there's another outburst I will clear the courtroom.

Nesbit:
Then whose shirt is it?

Ekhardt
(to Nesbit)
:
All due respect to the district attorney, but it is not my job to establish the owner, only to show that it could not possibly have been worn by my client.

Nesbit
(to Ekhardt)
:
Then why did you let me enter it into evidence?

Ekhardt:
Well, it is evidence of a sort.

Judge
(banging gavel)
:
That's enough, gentlemen! Mr. Ekhardt, do you have anything further for Miss Cordona?

Ekhardt:
No, Your Honor.

Judge:
You may step down. The prosecution will call its next witness.

Nesbit:
Will Gladys Fowler take the stand?

(Gladys Fowler sworn in.)

Nesbit:
You live directly across the street from the Sinclairs?

Fowler:
Yes. And you have no idea how much noise and construction I've had to put up with.

Judge:
Mrs. Fowler, please confine yourself to directly answering the question. Nothing more.

Fowler:
Yes, Your Honor. But it
was
awful—you can't imagine the dust and noise.

Judge:
Just the question, Mrs. Fowler.

Fowler:
All right.

Nesbit:
On the afternoon of the murder, where were you?

Fowler:
I was relaxing in my porch swing, reading a book.

Nesbit:
For how long?

Fowler:
One hour. From three-thirty until four-thirty.

Nesbit:
You seem quite sure about the time, is that right?

Fowler:
Oh, yes, because I had finished watching “Martha Stewart Bakes” on PBS at three-thirty, and I always start dinner at four-thirty. So that's one hour.

Nesbit:
Your porch swing faces the Sinclairs' house?

Judge:
Excuse the interruption . . . Mr. Sinclair?

Defendant:
Your Honor?

Judge:
It is in your best interest to keep Mr. Ekhardt awake. You may need to nudge him.

Defendant:
Yes, Your Honor.

Fowler:
Could you repeat the question?

Nesbit:
I asked if your porch swing faces the Sinclairs' house.

Fowler:
Yes, it does, I can see the entire monstrosity plain as day.

Nesbit:
And during the hour you spent relaxing and reading, did you notice anyone coming or going from the residence?

Fowler:
Yes. I saw Mr. Sinclair go up the drive in that fancy sports car of his.

Nesbit:
At what time?

Fowler:
I would say, four-fifteen. Give or take.

Nesbit:
Which is the coroner's estimation of the time of the murder.

Judge:
I'm going to have to object for Mr. Ekhardt. And sustain that objection.

Nesbit:
And how did the defendant seem? Angry? In a hurry?

Judge:
Again, a sustained objection. Leading the witness.

Nesbit:
I'll rephrase. Was there anything unusual about the defendant when he got out of his car?

Fowler:
He seemed normal enough. Then.

Nesbit:
And how long was the defendant in the house before he came back out?

Fowler:
About twenty minutes.

Nesbit:
And his demeanor at that time?

Fowler:
Oh, quite different. Very different. He looked upset, and drove off in a hurry.