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  “Wow,” Bree said, reviewing the list one more time. “Suspects. We’ve actually got a list of suspects.” She sat back in her chair, the humiliating meeting with Abel finally at bay. “It’s a long shot. But that’s exactly how the police would go about solving this case, isn’t it? And you know what? Sam Hunter’s been willing to work off-line in the past. He might give us a hand with a background check on these guys. And once I turn Mrs. Nussbaum’s witness statement over to him, he’s got to reopen this case as a homicide.”

  Ron hesitated. “Mrs. Nussbaum’s really nervous, Bree. And she’s got a wonky heart. It wouldn’t take much to send her home a little sooner than she should go.”

  Bree looked at the stacks of reports on her desk. The autopsy, the forensics exam of the automobile. There was a lot to absorb before she sat down with Cordelia at six.

  “I’ll keep Mrs. Nussbaum out of it, totally. I won’t give Hunter her name—just the gist of what she saw. The murderer plunging down the hillside to nail poor Probert with that flashlight.” She clapped her hands. “Suspects! Can I keep this copy of the list, Ron? Sam Hunter might have some information about them. And Cordelia, we can’t forget Cordelia. She’ll want to get this case if we nail the murderer. It’s high profile enough to give her a head start on the governor’s race.”

  “You can forget the jury trial, Bree. I’m here to tell you we’ll accept a plea.”

  Bree stared at her. Cordelia sat opposite her in a quiet booth at Huey’s and stared coolly back. Bree hadn’t been in the restaurant since she’d lost her temper and tossed Payton McAllister over the bar and started a small riot. She’d marched in the front door with an air of owning the place, figuring the best offense was her Brazen Hussy act. It worked. Other than a sharp, suspicious glare from Maureen the bartender, who was pretty good at the Brazen Hussy act herself, nobody said a word. But she didn’t have to wait for service. She got her glass of white wine in record time.

  “So make me an offer,” Cordy said.

  “You’re kidding, right? You’re dropping the case against Lindsey?”

  “I don’t want a lot of hoo-rah from you, Bree. Just talk to your client’s mother and make me an offer.”

  “Wow. I didn’t think God Himself could lean on you, Cordy, much less the Chandlers. Somebody really wants this to go away.” Bree thumped her forehead. “Sorry. That was incredibly stupid. We, of course, would like credit for what my client’s been through. Restitution’s been made. The victim’s withdrawn her complaint. She’s already spent time in custody . . .”

  “A couple of hours,” Cordy said, expressionlessly. “And . . . ?”

  “And had the humiliation of wearing the ankle bracelet. So. That’s enough punishment, right? She’s done.”

  “Okay. We’ll send over the paperwork in the morning.” Cordy ignored the remains of her diet cola and made a move to gather her purse and briefcase.

  “Wait just a cotton-picking minute.”

  That made Cordy laugh, although not very hard. “I haven’t heard that expression since I was a kid. As for the case—let it lie, Bree.”

  “I’ll say it again, then. Somebody really wants this case to go away. I can’t believe that somebody got to you, Cordelia. You were so sure about the justice of prosecuting this case. Officially, of course, I’m delighted to see that my client is being treated with the consideration she deserves. And unofficially, I’d really like to know who got to you.”

  Cordy stood up. She was a small woman with a big presence, and she loomed over Bree like a linebacker. “You’re dramatizing this out of all proportion, Bree. This is a small-time crime with no real victims. As for me?” Her eyes narrowed and her face grew fierce. “Don’t you ever think I can be bought. But I do know when to pick my battles. And this case of petty theft isn’t worth it.”

  “It’s not just a case of petty theft. It’s a case of murder.”

  “What!” Cordelia sat down with a thud. She looked really angry. “Nobody’s dead. What in the name of sweet Jesus are you talking about?”

  “Probert Chandler’s death. I have proof it was murder.”

  Cordy closed her eyes, as if she’d reached her limit. “First off, what does Probert Chandler have to do with the Girl Scout mess?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Cordy sniffed contemptuously. “So when you do, let me know.”

  “I don’t know yet,” Bree continued doggedly, “but there’s a connection. As for Probert Chandler, I’ve got an eyewitness that says somebody jumped out at Chandler’s Buick as it was coming around that bend and jacked the car with a deer light.”

  Cordy stared at her. Bree held her hand up in an “as God is my witness” gesture. “That’s solid?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the witness is who?”

  “Can’t tell you that yet.” Cordy swelled, a bit like an angry bullfrog. Bree grabbed her hand and clung to it. “But I’ll let you know just as soon as I can. Trust me, Cordy. Please.”

  Cordy rubbed her chin and muttered under her breath. “If that’s true, there is a case. I’ll give you that. But I don’t know that it’s murder, though. Reckless endanger ment, maybe. But murder?” Cordy’s interest was caught. That was clear from the set of her jaw. She grabbed her diet cola and sipped it. “What else have you got?”

  “He didn’t die in the car,” Bree said.

  “Come again?”

  “Chandler didn’t die in the car. Somebody knocked him off the road, hopped down into the ravine, and killed him. I looked at the autopsy report just after we spoke today.” She dug into her briefcase and pulled out the sheet listing the body’s injuries. “He died from a crack to the skull, probably after striking his head on the windshield, but you can see for yourself.” She waved the autopsy report in the air. “It’s a definite maybe. There’s a strong suggestion that there was a second blow, a harder blow that conclusively caused the brain damage.”

  “A car going down that ravine would bounce around a lot.”

  “And he smacked his head in the same place twice?”

  “He was strapped in, wasn’t he? Fixed in place.”

  “He didn’t have his seat belt on, according to the po lice report. But!—and this is an important but—there are marks on the chest consistent with abrasions from the belt. So he was strapped in when he went off the road. And then somebody unstrapped him and slammed him over the head with a roundish, heavy object.”

  “Like the dashboard.”

  “Like a huge flashlight for jacking deer.”

  “Could the belt have loosened in the crash?”

  “You know the likelihood of that happening. Practically zero, unless the buckle was defective. And it wasn’t. It was a new car. And there’s nothing in the reports about any damage that could have sprung the seat belt mechanism. Not only that, there were grass stains on his trousers.”

  “He could have gotten those anywhere. He’d been golfing that afternoon, for God’s sake.”

  “We can check that, of course.”

  “Huh.” Cordy’s responses indicated she was on autopilot. She mused for a long moment. “You really think there’s something in this.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I really do.”

  “And this eyewitness. Is he willing to come forward? Is there any backup to this stuff?”

  “No and no. Not at the moment. But I think if I keep digging I’ll be able to come up with sufficient evidence to make a real case.” She hesitated. “There’s something else, too. Something big, although not as big as murder. I was planning on running it by you this evening, but under the circumstances, maybe not. Not yet.”

  “What circumstances would those be?”

  “Somebody’s putting pressure on you, Cordy. So until I’ve got a whole truckload of cold hard facts, I’ll keep it to myself.”

  “Fine by me. Go ahead and stay cryptic.” Cordy cocked her head and looked at Bree assessingly. “So who’s your client? The widow?”

  “I’m not
at liberty to disclose that just now.”

  “But you’re telling me somebody’s hired you to bring a case of murder to the attention of my office. Somebody with a stake in the outcome, say. The widow?”

  “I’m not at lib—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Well, you watch your step, Miss Bree. You find evidence that a crime of this magnitude’s been committed on my patch, there’s not enough governors in the United States of America to keep me off it. Oops, forget I said that.”

  The governor’s office. Well, well, well. Bree smiled. Cordy’s verbal slip was dropped with just the right air of “golly gee.”

  “I’ve got a church meeting.” Cordy slipped her purse strap over her arm and slid out of the booth. “You know Sam Hunter, at the PD? ’Course you do. The man’s smitten. Smitten.” She chuckled at the chagrined expression on Bree’s face. “No one should know better than you that this is a small town, Miss Bree. But he’s a good man in a pinch, or so I hear. And pretty discreet. You might want to run that stack of ‘maybe so’s’ and ‘what if’s’ right by him.”

  “Thanks. I just might do that.”

  “You get anything I can use in a court of law, I want to hear about it. Sooner than quick.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Cordelia took her time leaving Huey’s. She stopped at the bar and shook a few hands, lingered by a few tables, then left the restaurant trailing goodwill and determination. She’d make one heck of a governor when the time came. But she was too wily a politician to stick her neck out on so tenuous a case, and Bree, for one, couldn’t blame her.

  She looked at the remainder of white wine in her glass, and left it. It was close on seven, she still hadn’t had any dinner, and she had to drop in on the Chandlers to discuss the plea with Lindsey and her mother.

  And perhaps get herself an official client, one that could support her investigation into Probert’s untimely demise.

  Fourteen

  What is incident but the illustration of character?

  —Partial Portraits, Henry James

  “You think my husband was murdered?” Carrie-Alice looked faintly disgusted, as if she’d discovered ants in her sock drawer. “No one’s said a word about that before.”

  “An eyewitness has come forward.”

  “Now? After all this time? Why?”

  “A matter of conscience, I suppose.” Bree hesitated, then smiled briefly. “Put it down to the offices of a good angel.”

  Carrie-Alice got up and walked agitatedly around the room. She’d been at home, sitting in front of the TV in the near dark, when the maid let Bree into the house. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.” She’d turned on one lamp and turned off the TV and the room was dark with shadows. The freesias sitting in the vase on the mantel were dying and a scent of rotting flowers filled the air. She picked up a framed family portrait that sat on the coffee table in their living room. Carrie-Alice and her husband stood side by side, their three children grouped around them. “I suppose this will be smeared all over the news, just like this thing with Lindsey.” She laid the photo facedown. “Why can’t people just leave us alone?”

  Bree didn’t bother to point out that their staggering wealth was one reason why, and Lindsey’s provocative behavior was the other.

  “Well, I can’t imagine what you want me to do about it,” Carrie-Alice said with an exhausted sigh. “Murdered. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “The DA’s office is willing to take a look at this, as long as we can provide them enough evidence to make a case. Right now, we don’t have it. I mean, we do, but it isn’t admissible. I’d like your permission to take things a little further.”

  Carrie-Alice worried at her lower lip with her teeth. “I don’t see that it’s going to do anybody any good, digging up the past.” Her lips quirked in a grim smile. “Or Probert himself, for that matter.” She hesitated. “My kids are home. George and Kath, I mean. I asked them to come home for a while. This thing with their sister’s just worn me out. I suppose you should talk to them about it. But I can’t see that it would make any difference.” She looked around the large living room, as if she’d misplaced all three of them. “They took her to the movies.”

  “Lindsey? George and Katharine took Lindsey to the movies?” Bree was exasperated and finding it harder than she should to keep her tone courteous. She wanted to take Carrie-Alice by the shoulders and shake her. She hoped she wasn’t becoming callous. The woman was recently widowed. She was dealing with a lot of unwanted notoriety. Maybe she was just too overwhelmed. Maybe that explained her lack of real concern. And maybe it didn’t. Maybe she thought her son and her older daughter had something to do with the murder. It wouldn’t be the first time. Look at the Menendez brothers. The only thing Bree knew for sure was that Carrie-Alice Chandler was a hard woman to figure out.

  “Yes. Lindsey was whining about being cooped up. The only one of her friends who’s been to see her is Madison.” Her glance at Bree was unexpectedly shrewd. “And I think Madison dropped by more because Andrea insisted than anything else.”

  Some of Bree’s coolness must have shown in her face. Carrie-Alice looked away. She put her hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m forgetting what few manners my folks taught me. Can I get you some coffee? Tea? A cola?”

  What Bree wanted was dinner and a glass of white wine and a good night’s sleep. And maybe a workout at the gym. Her back muscles ached with the inactivity of the past few days. “Perhaps both of us could do with a glass of tea,” she said brusquely.

  There was an intercom on the wall next to the foyer. Carrie-Alice pressed it. “Norah? Could you bring tea for us, please? And some crackers and cheese? Thank you.” She clasped her hands together, sank back into her chair, and took a deep breath. For the first time since Bree had met her, she let her guard down. Her eyes lost that distant, detached look. She said, as if admitting to murder herself, “I just can’t get used to not doing things myself. You know? And to having somebody who isn’t family in the house, touching my things. Bert was the same way. There’s so much stuff that comes with having the kind of money we’ve got. I hate it. I just hate it. Having maids, and cooks, and people to do the gardening. I resisted it for a long time. Then I’d be up at three in the morning trying to get the ironing done, and scrubbing out the bathrooms, and Bert finally put his foot down. So we hired staff.” She looked sidelong at Bree, a little timidly.

  “There’s a lot of satisfaction in doing your own work, surely,” Bree said. “And it’s got to be hard, adjusting to the sort of wealth Mr. Chandler amassed.” On impulse, she reached over and put her hand on Carrie-Alice’s. It was icy cold. “You aren’t all that comfortable with your husband’s success, I take it.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  The maid, a quiet, neatly put together woman of about Carrie-Alice’s age, came in and set a tea tray on the table. She began to pour out.

  “But there’s a lot of very satisfying things that you can do with piles of money. Why, look at the Gates family. You can take care of things yourself—maybe just not the old, familiar things like housework.”

  Carrie-Alice made a face. “Bert didn’t hold with most kinds of charity. It begins at home, he said. And I’ll tell you this. He came up from nothing. Absolutely nothing. And look where it got him. This is America, Miss Beaufort. Bert always felt people with enough drive can get anywhere, and I think that, too. People who are poor want to be poor.”

  Bree shot a glance at Norah, who winked and said, “Anything else, Mrs. Chandler?”

  “No, thank you. Now look at Norah,” Carrie-Alice continued, as the maid left the room. “We pay her the going rate for a woman with a high school education. And she chooses to be—what’s the expression Cissy uses?—in service. Nobody forced her to come to work for us. Just as nobody forces people to work at Probert’s stores. I mean, slavery went out in 1863. Everybody’s got a choice.”

  “That’s not true,” Bree said, keeping her voice
as even as she could. “There’s not much of a choice when the higher paying jobs have been driven out of an economy because of stores like Marlowe’s.” She held her hand up. “I’m not here to get into a wrangle over the cost of free markets with you, Mrs. Chandler. But I will say this. I do believe that the more you’ve got, the more you’re obligated to share. And I apologize for upsetting you when I’m a guest in your home. I do have an obligation to talk this offer from the DA’s office over with you, however. So perhaps we should discuss that.”

  Carrie-Alice’s face was pink. Bree was pretty sure her face was pink, too. Any brief rapport the two women had was gone. “Well!” she said. She looked at her watch. “George and Kath took Lindsey to the six o’clock show at the multiplex. It’s over by now and they’ll be back any minute. I waited dinner for them. As far as Lindsey goes, I suppose we’ll do whatever it is that she wants to do.” She raised her head at the sound of activity at the front door. “There they are,” she said with obvious relief. “We can get this over with.”

  Probert Chandler’s two older children walked into the room. George looked exactly like a twenty-something Harry Truman, down to the wire-rimmed glasses and the genial smile. Katherine was a tubby, untidy woman with soft brown hair and sensible shoes. She was dressed in an extremely well cut pantsuit.

  Both of them looked worried.

  “Where’s Lindsey?” Carrie-Alice demanded.

  “We’d hoped she was here.” George looked around the living room. “She’s not?”

  Katherine sat down in a chintz chair with a grunt of annoyance. “We walked all over the darn multiplex looking for her, Mother. And then when we decided to give up and come home, we discovered that she’d swiped the car. And she’s not answering her cell phone.”

  “She got up to go to the john and didn’t come back,” George said. “Kath went in to look for her and she wasn’t anywhere to be found.” He bent over the tea tray and took a cookie. “We had to take a cab back here. Cost me eighty bucks.”

  “She can’t have gotten far,” Bree said. “She’s wearing the ankle bracelet, isn’t she?”