Motion to Dismiss (17 page)

When we pulled into the driveway of his place, where I'd left my car, he turned to me. White moonlight filtered through the trees, casting a pattern, like lace, across his face and shirt. He reached for my hand.

"Spend the night with me, Kali."

Inside the car, the ethereal dappling of shadows gave the evening a feeling of unreality. A moment in time, without yesterdays or tomorrows. But deep inside, I knew that it was an illusion.

The yesterdays I could deal with, had been dealing with them for years. It was the tomorrows that had me worried.

"Not tonight," I told him. "But I won't say never."

He didn't push as I'd thought he might, but kissed me softly instead. "It's an open invitation."

When I got home, I lay awake in bed. Images of the path not taken flickered in my mind. What would it be like to be with Marc again? He'd treated me badly, but that was years ago. Let he who is without sin, I reminded myself. Besides, he'd admitted he was wrong. As he'd so aptly pointed out, you can't redraw the past.

As for the tomorrows -- they had a way of working themselves out. Or not. Either way, they came and went, and we learned to bend with the weight of experience.

I turned on the light and punched the buttons on the phone. What the hell. I was lonely. And tired of feeling that way. I felt again the tingle of Marc's fingers on my skin. There was no denying the sexual excitement I felt when I was around him.

I let the phone ring fifteen times before I gave up.

But I was awake for hours wondering where he'd gone to.

Normally, I don't eat much breakfast. Coffee, always. A banana if I'm feeling virtuous, a piece of toast if I'm looking at a particularly busy day. Even on Sundays.

My tenants-cum-landlords took a different approach, however. Especially on Sundays.

That morning they'd persuaded me to join them. Fresh strawberries with cream, homemade Belgian waffles dripping with butter and syrup, a platter of thick-cut Canadian bacon, and scrambled eggs laced with sun dried tomato. I didn't even try to count the calories.

"We heard you come in last night," Dotty said, dunking a piece of waffle into the syrup puddled on her plate.

I set my cup on the table. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"No, no. Don't worry about that." A look crossed between them, then a pause. Finally, Bea explained. "We thought you might be staying out all night. At your boyfriend's."

"My boyfriend?"

Dotty nodded. "We took bets, in fact. Bea said you wouldn't be back until after breakfast this morning."

"What?" I didn't know whether to laugh or be angry.

"There's nothing like a new love to make you forget the old, that's what I always say."

"I'm not -- "

Bea reached for a strawberry. "We just wanted you to know we wouldn't be shocked or upset or anything if you
did
spend the night somewhere else."

"At a man's place, she means."

"We may be getting on in years," Bea explained, "but we keep up with the times as best we can."

Dotty giggled. "I'd keep up for real if I could find myself a willing man."

"It wasn't a date," I said emphatically. They'd heard me mention Marc's name over the past couple of weeks, but unless I'd been talking in my sleep, they'd built a romantic fantasy out of nothing.

"You were out with him on a Saturday night," Bea offered.

"We were working," I assured them. "On a case." In the cold light of morning I was actually thankful Marc hadn't answered my late night call.

"Some work."

I brushed the air with my hand. "Don't hold your breath if you're looking to me for excitement."

Bea scoffed. "We don't need you for excitement."

"We have a pretty full plate on our own."

"I wasn't trying to suggest you didn't."

"We're off to the RV and camper show today," Dotty said smugly. She speared a piece of waffle with her fork. "You're welcome to come along if you'd like."

I shook my head. "I didn't know you were in the market for a camper."

"We're not. Wouldn't be caught dead with one of those things. All cramped and tight. But the shows are fun. It's a way to get out and mingle."

"Besides," Dotty said. "It's a real bargain. Seniors get in free."

I suppressed a smile and offered to clean up the kitchen, which wasn't difficult given that they were the sort of cooks who cleaned up as they went. A very different breed of creature from myself.

When the hour was sufficient for Hal to have recovered from whatever late night excesses he'd indulged in, I called and passed along Xavier's name as well as the assortment of possible addresses.

"Find out if Xavier saw or heard
anything
that night. He apparently told some of his buddies a story about seeing an angel, so I have a feeling you're going to have to work at getting a coherent answer."

Hal grumbled. "It won't be the first time."

"You sound down today."

"I am."

"The relationship that's headed south?"

"It's not headed anymore. It's there."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'll get over it."

I called Nina next. "How are you doing?"

"Okay." She didn't sound as though she believed it herself.

"Did you get to talk to Grady? They said they'd let him call you."

"Yesterday. Thanks for setting it up."

"Once they understood the situation, it wasn't a problem."

"I've been so worried, Kali. Thinking about him all alone in that horrible place."

It had to be hell to have a loved one behind bars, no matter what the circumstances. The fact that Nina couldn't visit had to make the anxiety worse. As if she didn't have enough to worry about already.

"He's not used to being around the kind of men who end up in jail," Nina said.

"How did he seem?"

She took a breath. "He sounded miserable. But at least I know he's being treated fairly and hasn't been jumped by one of his cell mates."

"You sound miserable yourself. Would you like some company today?"

"Maybe later. I didn't sleep well last night. Emily's off to a friend's house for the day and I'm going to try to get some rest."

"It's going to work out, Nina. Grady's going to be fine."

"I want to believe that. I really do."

"I'll drop by this afternoon. If you think of anything I can do before then, give me a call."

After I hung up, I continued to stare at the phone, imagining the multitude of emotions and fears that must be waging battle in Nina's mind. And there was so little any of us could do.

I started to punch in Marc's number, then wondered if I'd wake him. Wondered if I really wanted to talk to him, even. Was what I felt anything more than physical desire? Not that sexual passion didn't have its own rewards, just that it was wisest to recognize it for what it was.

Disgruntled, I nibbled the remaining square of waffle in spite of the fact that I was already stuffed, and tried to sort through my feelings.

When the phone rang, I jumped, then reached to answer, hoping it was Marc. Instead, it was Sheila Barlow, Deirdre's sister.

"I hope you don't mind my calling you at home," she said.

"I wasn't doing anything important."

"Or mind my calling you at all, for that matter."

"It
is
unusual."

"This whole situation is unusual." Her tone was clipped, betraying her impatience.

"Meaning?"

"Nina's husband. My sister. Adrianna and Emily being classmates. Our paths cross." She paused for a breath. "That's why we need to talk."

Actually, the situation wasn't as unusual as Sheila seemed to believe. Because victims frequently know their killers; overlap among friends and family is not uncommon. But there was no denying it was awkward.

"I don't know that talking will change anything," I told her. "But I'm willing to listen."

A moment of breathing on the other end, then she asked, "You aren't by any chance free right now, are you? The sooner I get through this the better."

"Now's fine with me."

"But not over the phone." She hesitated. "I know this is asking a lot, but could you come here? Say in about half an hour."

I gave half a moment's thought to the request being a setup. Sheila with a shotgun, waiting to blow me away the minute I walked through her door. It was a silly image, one born of too many evenings wasted on bad TV. But just to be on the safe side, I left a detailed note for Bea and Dotty before I went.

Although Piedmont has a reputation as being an enclave for the rich and pampered, there are, in fact, a number of very modest homes in the city. Sheila Barlow lived in one of them. It was a square, single-story stucco, pleasantly kept but with none of the amenities that real estate agents refer to as
curb appeal
. I rang the bell and Sheila answered immediately. She must have been watching from the front window for my arrival.

"Thank you for coming. Especially on such short notice." Her tone was agreeable, but there was no welcoming smile in accompaniment. On the other hand, there was no shotgun either.

Sheila Barlow was taller than her sister by a couple of inches, and rawboned. Whereas Deirdre had been curvy, Sheila was angular. Her hair, which was cut short, was a lackluster brown rather than her sister's fiery red. But the family resemblance was clear, particularly through the eyes.

"Would you like some coffee?" Sheila asked.

"No thanks."

"I made a pot. It's fresh." There was just a hint of reprimand in her tone.

"Okay." I gave a hey-I'm-easy laugh. "Half a cup. Black."

Sheila marched off to the kitchen and left me standing by the door, which opened directly onto the living room. I sat on the sofa and waited for her return.

A picture of Adrianna, gap-toothed and grinning, was prominently displayed on the fireplace mantel. The coffee table was stacked with children's books as well as several guides to gardening. A knitting project of heathered teal hung over the arm of the chair to my left. The green walls and heavily draped windows rendered the room too dark for my taste, but there was a lived-in feeling about it I found appealing.

Another photo, in a silver frame, rested on the table across the room. I rose and was looking at it when Sheila returned a moment later with two hefty blue and white mugs. Despite my request for half a cup, the one she handed me was filled to the brim.

"You and Deirdre?" I asked, nodding at the photo.

"Almost ten years ago. It amazes me every time, how young we were."

"Who's the man? A brother?" He stood between the two women, a lanky, square-jawed man with ash-blond hair that hung over one eye. All three were mugging for the camera.

Sheila shook her head. "That's Frank Nichols. Adrianna's father." She gave a little laugh. "Though he wasn't yet her father when that was taken. In fact, that was the first time he'd met Deirdre."

"Looks like the three of you were having a good time."

She nodded, her eyes lingering on the photo. "We had a lot of good times."

I returned to my place on the gold-hued sofa. Sheila took a chair.

"I won't beat around the bush," she said in a tone that suggested she rarely did. "This is a distasteful and uncomfortable situation all the way around." She paused. "I include our present conversation in that assessment."

I took a sip of coffee and nodded in acknowledgment. It wasn't every day that a defense attorney was welcomed into the home of the victim's family.

Sheila cleared her throat. "My primary concern at this point is Adrianna. She's a gregarious, levelheaded little girl, but all the turmoil of this past week has taken its toll."

"It must be terrible for both of you."

Sheila wasn't interested in sympathy. "And then with all the talk at school and in the community," she continued, "not to mention the murder being the spotlight of the news ... well, it's been very difficult."

"I'm sure it has."

"It's bad enough that she's lost her mother. I hate to have her dragged through it time and again."

Having lost my own mother under unnatural circumstances, I knew only too well the stiff silences and uncomfortable stares that followed me in the months after her death. I couldn't imagine that murder was any less a topic for speculation than suicide.

"There's Emily Barrett to consider as well," Sheila continued. She clutched her mug with both hands. "I don't think it's right that innocent children should suffer because of their parents' mistakes."

I nodded again, unsure where she was headed.

"I loved my sister, but I know she was no saint. Especially when it came to men. Deirdre went after the wrong ones every time. And it seemed like the harder she went after them, the worse they treated her."

"I'm not sure I follow your point."

The furrows between Sheila's dark brows deepened. "The strain of a trial is what I'm worried about," she said, looking at me sharply. "Adrianna would be called as a witness. Ms. Rivera, the attorney in the D.A.'s office, said there was no way around that. My niece is an important part of their case."

"That's right."

"Ms. Rivera also said you'd have the right to cross-examine Adrianna. That you'd try to make it look like she doesn't know what she's talking about."

"That's what a defense attorney does." Although I had no illusion that heavy-handed questioning of a child witness would endear me, or my client, to the jury.

"It would be very hard on her," Sheila said.

"I wouldn't take pleasure in it myself."

She set her coffee on the spindle-legged table next to the chair. "And, of course, with a trial there'd be more coverage in the news, more talk around town. It could go on for months." Another pause. "I'm thinking of Emily as well, you understand."

I wouldn't have bet on that. But I thought I was beginning to see what it was she wanted.

Sheila leaned forward. "Sometimes it's best to put what's done behind you and move on with the healing, don't you agree?"

"Depends on the circumstances."

She stood and walked to the window. "I think it's possible that Grady Barrett didn't intend to kill my sister. He's a big man. A strong man. They might have been talking, perhaps heatedly. Deirdre may have said something that upset him, and he reacted without thinking. Impulsively."