“Good luck, kid,” said Seymour, shaking Johnny’s hand. “If you ever need a good lawyer, look one up in the phone book, because you can do way better than me.”
“I second that assessment,” said Fiona.
After a final respectful nod from Judge Brainert, I escorted Johnny and Bud out of the Community Events room and through the dimly lit store. I unlocked the front door to let them out, and Johnny turned to face me. “Thanks for everything, Mrs. McClure. I left a note in your storage room. On that old desk. It’s for Mina. Could you make sure she gets it?”
I nodded. I had sequestered Johnny in that room until the meeting began. “I promise she’ll get your message first thing in the morning.”
“I told her everything.” He shook his head. “She’s been the best thing in my life since all the bad stuff happened. She made me start to feel good about myself and . . . I don’t know . . . to want to be a better person, you know?” He shrugged. “I decided she deserves to know the truth . . . everything . . . and then she can dump me if she wants to. I won’t blame her.”
“Mina cares about you, Johnny,” I assured him. “I haven’t known her long, but I don’t think she’s the kind of young woman who gives up on people. You’ll see.”
As they exited the store, Bud Napp put his arm on Johnny’s shoulder, gave his nephew a reassuring pat—a paternal gesture that just about tore my heart out.
“What’s your verdict, Jack?” I silently asked.
Poor dumb Johnny wanted to be a player. And the smart set ended up playing him. But the evidence is stacked, baby, and the cops are likely to be leaning in the same direction.
“But Johnny’s innocent,” I replied. “And Bud believes the court will clear him.”
The old guy’s sucking hope through an air hose, kiddo. Bud’s happy thoughts and square-john rectitude ain’t gonna keep that kid from wearing a fresh fish special—
“Huh?”
A prison haircut. You’re fresh fish when everyone knows you’re the new guy because you’ve just been clipped. My point being that these are high-altitude crimes, with crème-de-la-crème stiffs pushing up daisies, so the heat’s on the suits in the system to throw a neck-tie party—even if the guest of honor’s just a patsy.
“But—”
No buts. There’s yards of circumstantial evidence to make the charges stick like a floozy’s chewing gum.
I returned to the Community Events room, where a funeral pall had descended over the assembly. Seymour and Brainert were silently munching cinnamon rolls. Fiona clutched a cup of tea, and was leafing through a copy of All My Pretty Friends. Joyce Koh was dramatically blowing her nose into a tissue.
“Poor Johnny.” She sighed. “He’s so young and cute. It’s like, how could anyone so buff be a criminal? Bummer.”
“You think he’s innocent, then?” I asked.
Joyce blinked. “Don’t you?”
“I’d like to know what everyone else thinks.”
“Well, I think he’s been framed,” said Seymour. “And not because I represented the guy. I know those rich bums up in Newport. I’m sure one of them did it. They’re all pond scum.”
“That’s a blanket generalization,” said Brainert. “Overruled.”
“Listen, Judge, the trial’s over, and I speak of what I know.”
“What has the Newport set ever done to you, Seymour?” Linda asked.
“That’s easy. Remember last year, after I had to have my ice cream truck repainted after some dude’s guts got splattered all over it?”
I shuddered, recalling the murder of a young Salient House publicity assistant that occurred right in front of this store.
“That paint job set me back a few dollars, let me tell you. Plus I lost a week of selling while the work was getting done. My ice cream business struggled for the rest of the summer, until I feared I’d have to sell a few pulps to swell my bank account. I decided to extend the ice cream season, instead.”
Brainert adjusted his bow tie and huffed impatiently. “What’s your point, Tarnish?”
“Well, then came autumn and I was still working to make up for lost revenue. I was parked down at the Inn during Fiona’s Oktoberfest celebration when a few rich snots from Newport asked for sundaes. I whipped them up, served them up with a smile, and the a-hole who ordered them just walked away with his friends without paying—like it was free or something. I tried to collar them, but the guy just laughed. ‘It’s only ten bucks,’ he said, like it was too little of an amount to bother fishing out of his wallet. When I got more adamant, I was muscled by some bodyguard-type, and those a-holes just strolled away.”
Brainert frowned “That’s no reason to brand an entire class.”
“Why the hell not?” Seymour replied. “I’m like an elephant that way. Do me wrong, I never forget.”
The room fell silent for a moment, everyone lost in thought. Suddenly Aunt Sadie spoke. “What if Johnny is innocent? He’s no Klaus von Bülow. He can’t afford proper legal representation. I feel like we’ve condemned the poor boy to the gallows.”
For once these cornpone yahoos are talking sense, said Jack.
“Quiet, Jack,” I silently replied. “And my friends are not yahoos.”
“I think he’s guilty,” said Milner. “It doesn’t make sense, otherwise. If Johnny didn’t do the crimes, who did?”
Fiona slapped her book closed loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “I know I’m supposed to be the prosecutor here, but to be frank, I can finger a few other suspects just by perusing Angel Stark’s book.”
“I read that book, too,” said Brainert. “And despite what she claimed at her reading here, I thought Angel dropped the ball when it came to blame, wrapping it all up with the old ‘unanswered questions’ summation.”
“She didn’t name anybody,” Fiona replied. “But a close reading reveals some tantalizing clues.”
Brainert huffed. “If you say so. I yield to your true crime expertise.”
We faced Fiona. Some of us were hopeful. Others—like me—were dubious.
“Well, it says on page two nineteen that Donald Easterbrook, Bethany’s fiancé, disappeared from the party about an hour before Bethany’s body was found. Angel also writes that Bethany cheated on Donald many times. That’s certainly a good motive for him to murder her in a fit of rage.”
“I don’t know,” said Brainert. “Maybe Donald Easterbrook didn’t care.”
“He cared,” said Milner. “What man wouldn’t?”
This time I spoke up. “Okay, maybe Donald had a motive for killing Bethany, but that doesn’t explain Angel’s murder or Victoria Banks’s disappearance.”
“Okay,” said Fiona. “What about Hal McConnell? Unreasoning rage caused by unrequited love . . . Maybe he followed her to the utility room, tried to force his affections on her, she had choice words for him and he kills her?”
Joyce nodded with enthusiasm. “Sounds like it could happen.”
“Only on one of your soaps,” said Seymour.
“It did,” said Joyce. “Last month on Destiny.”
“Destiny?” asked Linda. “I don’t know that soap.”
“Korean channel. Out of Boston,” said Joyce. “Chin loved Bo-bae with all his heart, but she was cruel to him and one day when he declared himself, she humiliated him, and in a fit of rage, he smothered her with a silk pillow.”