Murder at the Courthouse (23 page)

“It was the judge. Roxanne met him out here. He somehow got out of the car before it went in the lake. Said the whole thing was an accident, but he didn't think it would look good on his political résumé to admit he was around when it happened. Rayburn had been blackmailing him for
years because he thought the judge was Anthony's father and suspected there was something fishy about Roxanne's disappearance. For some reason Rayburn called Anthony and arranged to meet him. Who knows why? Before that happened, the judge shot him. After that, the judge was just doing maintenance with Joe.”

Michael glanced over at Hank, who stopped in his tracks when Michael looked his way. “If it hadn't been for Hank showing up, the kid and me, we would have probably been part of the maintenance too. But when the judge saw Hank and knew there was no way out, he jumped. I couldn't stop him.”

Buck's eyes widened, then narrowed as he tried to take it all in. “That has to be the wildest story I ever heard. The judge? Our judge?”

“Yeah. Our judge.” Michael stared out toward the lake. “And now the sheriff wants me to drive his car out of here and go tell Miss June. What am I going to tell her, Buck?” He looked back at Buck. “What can I tell her?”

“That's a rough one for sure.” Buck shook his head. “But you'll think of something. You're good at that sort of thing.”

“I've never had to do that sort of thing before.” Michael stared at him.

“It's part of the job.”

“Then maybe I should turn in my badge and gun and walk out of here.”

“And then what, Mike? Then what?”

“I don't know.”

Buck clapped his hand down on Michael's shoulder and squeezed. “You aren't a quitter, kid, and Hidden Springs needs you right now.”

“I thought Hidden Springs needed the judge.”

Buck shook his head as if he couldn't quite take in everything Michael had told him. “Who'd have thought it?”

Hank had edged close enough to overhear them, but he stayed a few steps back from Michael, his hand on his camera. A trace of black was beginning to color his cheek.

Buck glanced over at Hank. “How much does he know?”

“Nothing from me,” Michael said.

“Oh, come on, Michael.” Hank moved closer. “I probably won't print the pictures. I have to live here too, you know, but I want to see them. Besides, I could file assault charges.”

Buck looked surprised again. “Assault charges? Against who? Mike?”

“File them then.” Michael turned away from both of them to walk toward the judge's Cadillac.

Hank called after him, “And you have to admit, it helped. Me showing up. I might even have saved your life. You ought to be grateful for that.”

Michael ignored him as he got into the judge's car. The keys were in the ignition. The judge's smell leaped off the leather seats to surround him. The console beside the bucket seat spilled over with appointment reminders the man would never keep now. A couple of ties were thrown across the backseat, and a Styrofoam cup half full of coffee was in the cup holder. Michael closed himself off to all of it, started the engine, and turned the car around.

Lester's car was still in the ditch, and the sheriff tried to flag Michael down as he passed. Michael didn't care. He just drove the Cadillac out of there without looking to either side.

He practiced on Aunt Lindy. She turned pale but didn't come close to fainting. She had questions in her eyes, but
she didn't ask them. He didn't tell her about the judge being the one to run his parents off the road. The rest was enough right now. More than enough.

“I'm not sure June will be able to bear it.” Aunt Lindy walked across the yard with Michael toward the judge's house.

When Miss June didn't answer the doorbell, Aunt Lindy pushed open the door that wasn't locked and called out to her. She didn't answer, but they went on in to find her sitting in a flood of sunshine on her glassed-in back porch. Ferns of all types spilled out of pots in every available spot, with the fronds seeming to reach toward the little woman in their midst. A large wooden rocking chair with brown corduroy cushions sat beside her neat wicker rocker. Miss June was humming softly as she kept her hand on the other rocker's arm and made it rock along with her.

“June,” Aunt Lindy said after they stood in the doorway a moment without her noticing them there.

Miss June looked up at them with a bright, brittle smile. Every silver-gray hair was in place, and her dark pink lipstick perfectly matched one of the flowers in the silky blouse she wore. She didn't look at Lindy but straight at Michael. “Oh, there you are, Michael. I knew you'd come.”

Michael tried to remember the words he'd practiced to tell Miss June, but they were gone without a trace. Aunt Lindy stepped in. She went over and sat beside Miss June in the big rocker. Michael followed to stand awkwardly in front of them.

“That's Wilson's chair.” Miss June was still smiling, but the effort it cost her was beginning to show.

“He won't mind.” Aunt Lindy put her hand over June's
on the chair arm. The two women rocked together another minute before Aunt Lindy said, “Wilson's gone, June.”

“Gone?” Miss June stopped rocking. Her smile trailed away. “You mean dead, don't you, Malinda?”

When Aunt Lindy nodded, Michael thought Miss June looked relieved as she began rocking again. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. After a moment, she said, “Wilson always knew the right thing to do.”

Michael thought about all the things the judge had done, and for a few seconds he could barely keep them from exploding out of his mouth. But then Miss June opened her eyes and looked directly at him, almost as if she heard his unspoken words. Michael saw past the fluffy blanket of lies she was pulling up over herself for appearances to the painful truth she knew inside.

He swallowed hard and managed to say, “Sometimes it's hard to do the right thing.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded so slightly Michael wasn't sure it was an acknowledgment of his words or just the motion of the rocking chair.

The days passed.

Sunday morning, people in Hidden Springs got up and headed out to their respective churches the same as always, but when the Christian Church members arrived at their door, Joe wasn't there to shake hands with them the way he had been for more years than anybody could remember. Across the street at First Baptist, the judge and Miss June's spot, the fifth pew from the back, remained empty. Five-year-old Benny Upton tried to sit there, but his bottom barely brushed the seat of the pew before his mother jerked him off it. At both churches, the hymns, even the lively ones, sounded like funeral dirges, and the sermons on faith at First Baptist and forgiveness at the Christian Church sort of slid off the congregations without leaving much discernible trace.

Karen reported that she didn't try to preach a sermon at the Presbyterian Church. She decided to read comforting Scriptures and invite others to talk. A few spoke about how much they were going to miss Joe. Nobody mentioned the judge, though some said they were praying for Miss June. Michael didn't go to services at any of the churches. He
sat on his back deck with Jasper and stared out at the lake. Monday was soon enough to have to talk to people.

Monday morning Miss Willadean showed up at the courthouse at nine on the dot the same as always. She barely paused at the county clerk's office and came on down the hall to peek in the sheriff's office. Betty Jean looked over her screen at the little woman and asked, “Can we do something for you, Miss Willadean?”

The woman hesitated, then stepped into the office. She was wearing a dark gray suit and a black hat covered in netting. Her somber colors were only broken by her cherry-red lipstick and the dark pink peony bloom she carried. She seemed reluctant to speak, which was far from normal for Miss Willadean.

Michael stood up. “Is everything all right outside, Miss Willadean?”

“Oh yes. Nobody on the steps. Nobody at all.” Her free hand fluttered to her hat, where her fingers danced nervously across the black netting.

Michael glanced at Betty Jean, who shrugged and started working on her computer again. Michael turned back to Miss Willadean. “That's good.”

“Yes, yes indeed. Good.” She gave her hat a last pat and dropped her hand back down to touch the peony bloom. She stepped forward, then back, as if unsure of which way she intended to move.

Michael didn't know whether to offer her a chair or usher her out of the office. “That's a pretty flower.” He hoped that would help the old lady focus.

She looked down at the peony as though surprised to see it in her hand.

“Did you bring it for Neville?” he asked.

“No, of course not.” She frowned a little. “He says flowers make him sneeze.”

Michael started to say something, but Miss Willadean suddenly found her voice and her purpose. With determined steps, she came across the room to lay the peony on his desk. “I brought it for you. Because, well, just because it looked so lovely on the bush in my yard and I thought you might need a flower this morning. You know, after everything last week.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Willadean.” Michael picked up the flower.

“You're very welcome, I'm sure.” She pushed back her jacket sleeve to check her watch. “Where does the time go? I best be on my way.”

After she tottered out of the office and up the hall, Michael breathed in the peony's spicy fragrance.

“What do you know about that?” Betty Jean looked over at him. “People can surprise you.”

“Some surprises are better than others.” Michael stuck the peony stem down in a half-empty water bottle.

That afternoon, Joe was buried. Every business in town shut down as people packed the Christian Church to pay their last respects.

Tuesday morning Hank got the
Gazette
out a day early in spite of shutting down for Joe's funeral on Monday. Miss June's copy disappeared off her porch before she had a chance to see it.

At the sheriff's office, Michael glanced at the headlines over Betty Jean's shoulder. J
UDGE
C
AMPBELL
D
EAD
spread across the top in large black type with
SUSPECTED
OF
MURDER
in smaller type under it.

“I don't see why Hank had to put out the paper early. Tomorrow would have been soon enough.” Betty Jean stared at the picture of Judge Campbell smiling at them off the front page, looking as if he'd just announced he was running for office.

“Then don't read it till tomorrow.” Michael went back to sit at his desk.

Betty Jean looked over at him, then without a word folded the paper and stuck it in the drawer. “Now if I could just stick that in the drawer.” She glared at the phone when it started ringing.

Tuesday afternoon the judge was buried. Michael was a pallbearer. He hadn't known how to refuse Miss June. Reverend Simpson, obviously in shock himself over the death and even more so the life of one of his most faithful deacons, stumbled through a funeral service that couldn't have been a comfort to any of his listeners. While the organist played a mournful hymn, Michael took his place beside the sheriff and the four other men selected to carry the judge's casket to the hearse and on to its final resting spot in the cemetery.

It was one of those perfect spring days. The sky looked freshly washed, and the air smelled sweet after the stale flower scent that pervaded the funeral chapel. Michael stood under the graveside tent and listened as Reverend Simpson, a bit more in control now, went through the motions at the graveside. Perched on one of the folding chairs, her sister on one side of her and Aunt Lindy on the other, Miss June wept quietly into her lace handkerchief. She looked frail and very tired in her black dress. Michael could almost feel the people gathered under the tent, closing ranks around her to protect her from the truth. Or perhaps to protect themselves.

Then there was Hank, standing to the side, sneaking down a word now and again in his wretched notebook. At least he'd had the decency to leave his camera in his car. Michael didn't know yet whether Hank published any of the pictures he took on Saturday. None were on the front page.

Hank caught Michael looking at him and gave a slight shrug before scribbling another few words in his notebook. Michael hoped it was nothing about the deputy sheriff as pallbearer. He turned his attention back to the preacher's words.

“Our brother made mistakes as we all make mistakes. Yet he was a loving husband, a good friend.”

Michael stopped listening and once more looked around. Betty Jean dabbed a pink tissue to her eyes. The preacher droned on as if trying to make up for his earlier ineptness by delivering the deluxe graveside service.

Miss Willadean had found a position next to the tent where she had a good view of Miss June so she could properly report the widow's deportment to her friends who hadn't been able to attend. But Michael thought of the peony on his desk in the sheriff's office and forgave her. The county's six magistrates in their dark suits made a forbidding line behind Miss June as they shifted back and forth on their feet, obviously wishing the ordeal over.

Michael wished it with them as he let his eyes slide over their heads to the back of the crowd, and there was Anthony. Since Saturday, Michael had made a few attempts to find the boy with no luck. Anthony had left Michael's cell phone in Aunt Lindy's mailbox on Sunday, but Aunt Lindy said it must have been while she was at church. She reported he hadn't been at school. Nobody knew where he was, so Michael was relieved to see him still in Hidden Springs.

Anthony didn't try to duck out of sight when Michael looked his way. Instead the kid pointed at Michael, then at himself, and finally at the coffin under the tent. Michael knew what he meant—that it easily could have been the two of them in coffins under the tent instead of the judge.

Then, as Reverend Simpson mercifully began his closing prayer, Anthony actually smiled and raised his hand in a kind of salute before heading away across the graveyard. Michael wanted to go after him, but he was closed in by mourners. By the time the preacher said amen and whispered the expected final words of consolation to Miss June, Anthony was out of sight.

Michael couldn't follow him anyway. He had to play out the role he was in. He spoke some bland, meaningless words to Miss June. She smiled and patted his arm as if she'd been comforted before she let Justin and her sister hustle her back to the limousine. Aunt Lindy went with them.

Alex moved under the tent to help Reece stand. The last week had aged him, and he leaned heavily on Alex's arm as they made their way toward his car. Alex's cheeks were wet with tears, and the tip of her nose was red. Michael caught up with them.

Alex swiped the tears off her cheek with the back of her hand. “I can't believe this. I just can't.”

Michael didn't say anything, but when Alex leaned against him, he put his arms around her.

“Take care of your uncle,” Michael whispered before he turned her loose.

“I'm leaving tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Michael said.

Reece spoke up beside her. “She has cases to take care of. Life doesn't stop just because something bad happens.”

Alex tried to smile at Michael. “You still have people to put in jail, and I still have people to get out of jail.”

“We just keep playing the game. Is that what you're saying?” The words felt heavy in the air between them.

Alex looked at him a long moment as her eyes grew even sadder. “We keep playing the game.”

As he watched them walk away, he wanted to chase after her and ask which game. Professional or personal. But he stood rooted to his spot, still playing all the games, even though he was beginning to wonder if he knew the rules anymore.

When beckoned, he went across to drive the limousine carrying the pallbearers back to the funeral home. There he loaded up Miss June's car with the plants and flowers that hadn't gone to the gravesite. Then he drove Miss June and her sister home. Aunt Lindy followed in her car. The sister, Claire, a slightly larger and untidier version of Miss June, had come down from Ohio, and as Michael drove, the two women compared facts about the people at the funeral, some of whom the sister hadn't seen for more than thirty years.

At the judge's house, after Michael carried in the last pot of flowers, he ignored Aunt Lindy's frown and made his excuses. He wanted to track down Anthony, but once he was finally back out on the road, Anthony was again nowhere to be found.