Maid of Murder (19 page)

“Can’t let you through, Miss. Orders of the detective,” the burly officer explained. His nameplate read, Officer Knute.

I pointed at my parents. “They’re my parents. I’m Mark Hayes’s sister.”

Officer Knute looked doubtful and shook his head. “Sorry.”

“I have ID.” I rifled through my oversized shoulder bag. Like a faithful pet, it rested on my hip.

He looked at my driver’s license, but shook his head. He did that a lot. “The detective said, no one gets through.”

I pointed to Carmen who had given up skewering Mains with her index finger and was now waving both her hands erratically in his face as she continued to lecture him. “How did she get through?”

Officer Knute grimaced. My sister was not one to take no for an answer.

“Couldn’t pistol whip a pregnant lady, could you?”

He turned pink. “Watch your mouth.”

In my peripheral vision, Kirk strained to break through the police line ten feet to my left, and was stopped by a female officer who was a few years younger than me and had an impossibly straight nose and beautiful, thick, curly black hair. He roared at her. She roared back, towering over Kirk by half a head. His body pulled taut. His biceps and shoulder muscles bulged against the thin cotton of his blue T-shirt. When the officer rebuffed him for a third time, he clenched his jaw.

I stopped pushing against the barricade. “Thank you for following your superior’s orders so thoroughly.”

Officer Knute gave me a look I suspected that he reserved for funny farm pickups.

I allowed myself to be swallowed into the crowd as I moved closer to Kirk. When I got within five feet, I saw a face behind him. Bree.

Bree placed her hand on Kirk’s shoulder. “Please let me take you back to the inn.”

He rounded on her. My heart jumped into my throat when I saw his face contorted by anger and driven by grief. He glared at Bree. “You can leave if you want, run off with that pansy librarian. Do you even remember Olivia? I’ll stay here and make sure that bastard gets what he deserves.”

Bree recoiled, but the crowd trapped her beside Kirk. Furious tears poured down his face. Seeing Kirk like that I could believe that he was capable of pushing Olivia into the fountain hard enough to kill her. I looked away.

To get the image of Kirk’s expression out of my mind, I focused on an elderly protestor marching in his own circle, and maybe to the beat of his own private drummer. The gentleman’s bifocals bounced on his nose with the rhythm of his steps, and a sprinkling of resilient hairs blew in the light updraft he created with his swaying placard. Of the contingent, he marched the closest to the police line. He proudly carried his banner by Kirk and the female officer.

At that moment, with reflexes honed by countless hours of heart-pumping aerobics, Kirk threw out a fist. Missing the officer completely, he punched the elderly protestor in the eye. The shocked officer faltered. Taking advantage of her weakness, with a tribal yell, Kirk barreled into the demonstration.

The crowd surged back and forced me away. I couldn’t see who Kirk pummeled next, if he pummeled at all. The roar was deafening. Above it all, I heard my father through his megaphone, “Turn the other cheek. Turn the other cheek. Passive resistance.” His voice was pitched high with excitement.

Mains rushed down the stone steps in the direction where I’d last seen Kirk. Carmen hobbled after him.

My father continued to shout encouragement. “Do not resis—” His voice broke off, and my heart skipped a beat. If Kirk hit my father . . . I didn’t complete the thought.

Mains’s voice called over the megaphone, “Show’s over folks. Clear out. Or you’ll be arrested for loitering.”

No one moved.

“Now!”

The throng broke apart. Excited gossip flew threw the air as people scurried back to their cars. The TV reporter spoke closing remarks into the camera.

Free of the crush of excited townsfolk, I was able to see my parents and their bedraggled crew of merry men and women. My mother attempted a last stand.

“We have a right to protest. Have you ever heard of the Bill of Rights? You’re the same pigheaded boy that you were in high school. I should have never allowed you to take Carmen to the prom,” she told Mains.

“You’re welcome to protest but not within five hundred feet of this building. If you don’t move, I’ll be forced to arrest you.”

She held out her wrists. “Go ahead. I have been in worse jailhouses than this. I marched on Washington in Seventy-Two.”

Lord, I thought.

I walked up to the line of the police and found myself eyeball to eyeball with Officer Knute again. “Excuse me?”

Officer Knute’s face was flushed and his hair ruffled. “No one’s allowed to pass.”

“Don’t you think that’s just a formality now?”

Officer Knute should give glaring lessons at the academy. His were especially heartfelt.

Mains glanced at us while dodging my mother’s insistent index finger. “Let her through,” he told Knute.

“Detective—”

“Do it.”

I flashed Officer Knute an angelic smile.

The officer Kirk had dodged had him on his stomach with her knee on his spine. She grabbed his arms and pulled them together behind his back.

“Don’t do that,” the punched protestor exclaimed. He sat on the Justice Center’s lawn, his hand over his already blackening eye. “I don’t want to press charges.”

The officer ignored him and handcuffed Kirk.

“But I don’t want to press any charges.”

My father wheeled over to his side. “What Christian charity. That’s very kind of you, Stan.”

Stan got up slowly and clapped my father on the shoulder. “Alden, I don’t know when I’ve had such a time. How exciting!” He beamed at my father.

Mains left my mother’s objections and joined the small crowd gathering around Stan.

“Take him in,” he told the arresting officer.

She yanked Kirk to his feet. Dirt and specks of asphalt peppered his T-shirt and khaki pants. Kirk spotted me as the officer lifted him from the ground. He didn’t speak; he didn’t have to speak. Perhaps he was the one who should be giving out glaring lessons.

Stan’s face fell. “But I don’t want to press charges.”

Mains nodded to the officer, and she frog-marched Kirk up the department’s stone steps. He didn’t resist. Stan’s declarations of goodwill became louder.

Mains cut him off. “Mr. Row’s under arrest for disturbing the peace, even if you don’t press charges.”

The tone of command silenced Stan. My father whispered to his protégé.

Mom picked up where she left off, pointing at Mains’s chest, “Furthermore—”

I stepped in front of her. “For goodness sakes, Mom, call it a day. None of this is going to help Mark.”

“India Veronica Hayes, you will not interrupt me when I’m in the middle of a private conversation.”

I flushed with embarrassment and anger. Before I could make a smart remark— and I had a few beauties in mind—my father wheeled over. “Lana, she’s right. We must regroup.”

“I want to see my son. I demand that I see my son,” Mom said.

Mains stood his ground. “You can’t visit Mark right now. He’s in the middle of being booked.”

Booked, I thought. My stomach felt queasy. Mains glanced away from my mother, who had planted herself squarely in his line of sight, and met my gaze. “If it’s any comfort, his lawyer is with him,” he said. For a second his hard look softened, but it was so quick I wondered if I’d imagined it.

My mother scowled. “It’s not.”

After a few more minutes of arguing, Mom seemed to realize that Mains wasn’t going to change his mind and agreed to go home. As their small band of players dispersed, the television correspondent shouted questions. Well trained by my parents, nobody would comment to the press. A uniformed officer walked over to the news crew. The show was over. After several minutes, they left. My parents loaded their placards into the van. Chip buckled Nicholas into the back seat of his hatchback. I watched their activities carefully, making certain every member of my family intended to leave the Justice Center.

Carmen threw a parting shot at Mains as she walked to her husband’s car. “I expected better from you, Ricky. I’ll remember this.”

Mains watched her walk away with a bemused expression. He left his officers to supervise and entered the station. My sister and her family drove away.

“India, do you need a ride?” my father asked.

“No, I’m parked on the square.”

He nodded. “Meet us at the house. Lew will be over after he’s done here.”

I nodded, but dreaded another family council of war.

Before climbing into the van, my mother looked down at my feet. “My word, India. What happened to your toe? Did one of those hooligans crush it during the tussle?”

I sighed. Seemed everyone was thinking about anything and everything . . . besides Mark. I looked up at the imposing building. Somewhere in there, my brother sat, alone and scared. I hoped Lew could get him released.

Lew shook a smoke and a lighter out of a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He lit up, ignoring my parents’ complaints. The scene in my parents’ living room was eerily similar to the one that occurred Monday evening. My father sat attentive and anxious in his wheelchair, Lew sat in my father’s armchair, my mother and Carmen paced canyons into the floorboards, and I stood off to the side with my arms folded.

One glaring absence disturbed the reenactment: Mark.

“The police searched Mark’s apartment this afternoon and found evidence that links him to Olivia Blocken’s murder,” Lew said.

Carmen gasped, stopping dead in her tracks, and I wrapped my arms more tightly around myself.

“That’s impossible,” my mother said with a fierce mother lion look on her face.

“What was that?” Carmen asked.

“A scarf that matches the sundress Olivia was wearing the day she was killed.”

“That doesn’t mean he killed her, for goodness sake. Maybe he picked it up at the scene when he found her. He was in shock,” Carmen said.

“Mark insists that he’s never seen it. Honestly, I’m surprised they haven’t searched his apartment before now. I have a friend at the department who said Mains got an anonymous tip this morning, suggesting the police check out Mark’s home.” He took a long drag of cigarette. “Lana. Carmen. Sit down. I can’t think with you marching around me like a damned German battalion.”

Carmen perched on the arm of the sofa, but my mother continued pacing, but more slowly. Lew shrugged, apparently resigned. “Because Mark was arrested late, I can’t get a bail hearing until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Let me tell you, the district attorney is salivating over this whole thing. It’s the biggest case of his career, and he was not impressed with the little stunt you pulled in front of the Justice Center this afternoon.”

Mom frowned. “We have every right to—”

“Lana, I’m well aware of your constitutional rights, thank you. I’m afraid Mark will spend the night in jail.”

Carmen stood. “We can’t let that happen. Mark didn’t do anything wrong.” She resumed her march around the sofa.

“I understand your concern. But I’ve been to the jail many times. It’s small, cozy even. There are only a few cells. Stripling isn’t exactly Gotham City, nor is Stripling’s jail Grand Central. First thing tomorrow, I’ll post Mark’s bail. I’ll request it, but there’s no way the judge is going to release him on his own recognizance. However, the D.A. cannot refuse a bond settlement with Mark’s history in the community. I’ll warn you that the price for his release may be fairly steep.” Lew removed a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. “Traditionally, the district requires ten percent of the bail be paid up front, or you could make arrangements through a bail bond company. This is a list of bondsmen in the county that I trust, in case you need help coming up with bail. Like I said, I expect it to be rather high.”

Neither of my parents reached for the paper. Lew finally placed it on the coffee table.

“We won’t be posting bond.” My father spoke.

“What?” Carmen squawked.

“We won’t be posting bond. Mark’s innocent, and I won’t be contributing my money or any of our money to a justice system that’s set to condemn him.”

Lew’s face fell, but he quickly regained control. “Alden, I understand and respect your principles, but, all lawyer-talk aside, that’s a plain stupid decision. The trial could be months away. The DA needs the time to build a case against your son, and, frankly, I need the time to build a worthwhile defense. Under those circumstances, the Stripling P.D. cannot keep Mark in their tiny holding cell. He’ll be moved to a county jail or even a prison for the time leading up to and during the trial.” Lew inched forward in his seat. “The men that he’ll meet in these places could be hardened, Alden. Hardened criminals. God knows what they’ll do to a sensitive kid like Mark.”

My father flinched. “This is not up for debate.”

There would be no prison time in my brother’s future. I spoke for the first time. “I’ll get the money you need, Lew.”

“India, that is neither your responsibility nor your decision,” my father said.

“It shouldn’t be,” I said with heat. “It should be yours, but you choked. You’d rather let Mark rot in prison for your ideals than consider his well-being.”

“We’ve all had a long day. We’ll discuss this in the morning,” Mom said in the tone she usually reserved for times when budget meetings with the church elders turned sour.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Dad said.

“Damn right,” I agreed.

“India,” my mother warned.

Carmen looked at Lew. “How much time do we have before he’s moved to one of these other places?”

Lew thought for a minute. “That really depends on the prisoner transfer schedule, but I have some favors I can call in at the station. I can buy Mark a couple of days at the jail. He’ll be out of there Friday, though, at the latest.”

“Do that, Lew. We’ll discuss this again before Mark’s moved,” my mother decreed.

I stormed out of the house.