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  Judge: Objection?

  Ekhardt: No.

  Nesbit: I further move for admission as evidence number two, the lab report from the DNA sample taken from said shirt showing that the blood was that of Vanessa Sinclair.

  Judge: Objection?

  Ekhardt: No.

  Nesbit: Your witness, Mr. Ekhardt.

  Judge: Mr. Ekhardt? Cross-examination?

  Ekhardt: Yes.

  Judge: Mr. Ekhardt, do you need assistance in approaching the stand? Or would you like to cross-examine from your seat?

  Ekhardt: No, Your Honor, I can make it. Just give me a few moments.

  (Defense counsel approaches the witness stand.)

  Ekhardt: Miss Cordona, have you ever worn a man’s shirt?

  Nesbit: Objection to relevance!

  Judge: Sustained.

  Ekhardt: I’ll rephrase. Have you ever worn a man’s-style shirt?

  Nesbit: Your Honor, apparently defense counsel didn’t hear you.

  Judge: Mr. Ekhardt, where are you going with this?

  Ekhardt: Where I’m going, Your Honor, is to contend that exhibit number one does not belong to my client, which can be easily demonstrated, if he strips to the waist.

  Nesbit: Your Honor! I object to this kind of courtroom theatrics!

  Judge: Overruled. Mr. Ekhardt, you may proceed. But let’s try just holding the shirt up to Mr. Sinclair. Mr. Sinclair, would you rise?

  Ekhardt: As you can see, the sleeves are too short, and the width too narrow.

  Judge (banging gavel): Silence—if there’s another outburst I will clear the courtroom.

  Nesbit: Then whose shirt is it?

  Ekhardt (to Nesbit): All due respect to the district attorney, but it is not my job to establish the owner, only to show that it could not possibly have been worn by my client.

  Nesbit (to Ekhardt): Then why did you let me enter it into evidence?

  Ekhardt: Well, it is evidence of a sort.

  Judge (banging gavel): That’s enough, gentlemen! Mr. Ekhardt, do you have anything further for Miss Cordona?

  Ekhardt: No, Your Honor.

  Judge: You may step down. The prosecution will call its next witness.

  Nesbit: Will Gladys Fowler take the stand?

  (Gladys Fowler sworn in.)

  Nesbit: You live directly across the street from the Sinclairs?

  Fowler: Yes. And you have no idea how much noise and construction I’ve had to put up with.

  Judge: Mrs. Fowler, please confine yourself to directly answering the question. Nothing more.

  Fowler: Yes, Your Honor. But it was awful—you can’t imagine the dust and noise.

  Judge: Just the question, Mrs. Fowler.

  Fowler: All right.

  Nesbit: On the afternoon of the murder, where were you?

  Fowler: I was relaxing in my porch swing, reading a book.

  Nesbit: For how long?

  Fowler: One hour. From three-thirty until four-thirty.

  Nesbit: You seem quite sure about the time, is that right?

  Fowler: Oh, yes, because I had finished watching “Martha Stewart Bakes” on PBS at three-thirty, and I always start dinner at four-thirty. So that’s one hour.

  Nesbit: Your porch swing faces the Sinclairs’ house?

  Judge: Excuse the interruption . . . Mr. Sinclair?

  Defendant: Your Honor?

  Judge: It is in your best interest to keep Mr. Ekhardt awake. You may need to nudge him.

  Defendant: Yes, Your Honor.

  Fowler: Could you repeat the question?

  Nesbit: I asked if your porch swing faces the Sinclairs’ house.

  Fowler: Yes, it does, I can see the entire monstrosity plain as day.

  Nesbit: And during the hour you spent relaxing and reading, did you notice anyone coming or going from the residence?

  Fowler: Yes. I saw Mr. Sinclair go up the drive in that fancy sports car of his.

  Nesbit: At what time?

  Fowler: I would say, four-fifteen. Give or take.

  Nesbit: Which is the coroner’s estimation of the time of the murder.

  Judge: I’m going to have to object for Mr. Ekhardt. And sustain that objection.

  Nesbit: And how did the defendant seem? Angry? In a hurry?

  Judge: Again, a sustained objection. Leading the witness.

  Nesbit: I’ll rephrase. Was there anything unusual about the defendant when he got out of his car?

  Fowler: He seemed normal enough. Then.

  Nesbit: And how long was the defendant in the house before he came back out?

  Fowler: About twenty minutes.

  Nesbit: And his demeanor at that time?

  Fowler: Oh, quite different. Very different. He looked upset, and drove off in a hurry.

  Fowler: I’m through with this witness.

  Judge: You may step down. Mr. Ekhardt? Cross-examination? Mr. Ekhardt?

  Ekhardt: Yes, Your Honor.

  Ekhardt: Hello, Gladys. You’re looking most attractive today. Are those new glasses?

  Nesbit: Your Honor!

  Judge: Mr. Ekhardt, you know such pleasantries are out of order. And we’d all like to go to lunch before it’s time for supper. So if you could proceed properly?

  Ekhardt: I understand, Your Honor. You know, I’m a little hungry myself. Now Gladys, are the glasses you have on right now the ones you wear for reading?

  Fowler: Oh, no. I have a special pair for that.

  Ekhardt: And you were wearing that special pair Saturday afternoon?

  Fowler: Well, of course. I can’t read with the ones I have on now.

  Ekhardt: And do you have those reading glasses with you?

  Fowler: Yes, in my purse.

  Ekhardt: Would you please put them on?

  (Witness removes glasses from her purse and puts them on.)

  Ekhardt: Thank you, Gladys. Now I’m going to walk to the back of the courtroom.

  Nesbit: I object to this line of questioning. It’s beyond the scope of what the prosecution presented. It’s clear Mr. Ekhardt is going on a fishing expedition.

  Judge: Overruled. Bailiff, assist counsel to where he wants to go. Thank you.

  (Bailiff assists defense counsel.)

  Ekhardt: Now, Mrs. Fowler, are you wearing your reading glasses?

  Fowler: Yes.

  Ekhardt: The very glasses you had on when the defendant came home that afternoon?

  Fowler: I said so, didn’t I?

  Ekhardt: How many fingers am I holding up?

  Fowler: Three?

  Vivian Borne: Ha! He isn’t holding up any fingers!

  Judge (banging gavel): Bailiff! Hold that woman in contempt of court!

  Vivian Borne: Couldn’t help it, Your Honor. I plead innocent by reason of Tourette syndrome.

  Judge: Mrs. Fowler, could you not see Mr. Ekhardt clearly?

  Fowler: Well, maybe not as good as with my regular glasses. But the defendant was in a hurry, like he was a guilty man! Why, you should have heard some of the fights that went on over there.

  Judge: I’ve heard quite enough. I’m dismissing this case for lack of evidence. The defendant may be released. (Bangs gavel.) Case dismissed. Mr. Nesbit, I want to see you in my chambers.

  End of transcript.

  The crowd, clearly on the side of the defendant, burst into applause, and suddenly Wes was surrounded by well-wishers.

  My eyes went to Brian, who was standing next to Nesbit; the interim chief spoke a few terse words to the DA, then made a quick exit at the front of the courtroom.

  I felt bad for Brian, but was relieved by the hearing’s outcome.

  Mother and I made our way over to Wes, who was now surrounded by three of his closest friends: Brent Morgan, the tall, dark-haired, good-looking president of the bank; Travis Thompson, a short but broad-shouldered real estate developer with nicely rugged features; and Sean Hartman, a somewhat overweight but impeccably dressed investment broker.

  “Wasn’t Wayne wonderful?” Mother a
sked the little congratulatory group, gesturing toward Mr. Ekhardt, who was having a word with Judge Jones.

  I figured he was trying to get Mother out of the soup—contempt of court could put her back in the slammer.

  Banker Brent, grinning in admiration, was saying, “Wayne Ekhardt is still the best damn lawyer around, at any age.”

  Mother and I kept our accounts at his bank (the interest was lousy).

  Sean was shaking his head, his expression one of half-smiling amazement. “I have to admit I was worried. Especially the times he fell asleep!”

  We had some investments with Sean, but so far seemed to be just treading water on his stock market picks.

  Travis said, “I tried to talk Wes out of using the old boy . . . but when I’m wrong, I’m wrong. And Wes, buddy, you were right!”

  We’d have been better off putting our money with Travis—the land developer seemed to have a Midas touch.

  The bailiff came over. “Mrs. Borne, you’ll have to come with me.”

  Apparently Mr. Ekhardt had failed in persuading the judge.

  Mother turned to me. “Best you go on home, dear. This may well take a while. Be prepared to pack my kit bag!”

  “I can wait.”

  “No. Wayne will be with me . . . and Judge Jones won’t have time for me until she’s given the DA a well-deserved dressing down for wasting the taxpayers’ money.”

  The bailiff led Mother through the side door, with a weary-looking Mr. Ekhardt trailing behind, his day in court not done yet.

  Then Brent, Sean, and Travis peeled away from Wes, and I had the freed prisoner to myself.

  Wes had a weak smile going, which was about all you could expect from a victory that left him with a wife to bury.

  I said, “Looks like I was wrong about Wayne Ekhardt.”

  He laughed softly. “See, sometimes your mother is worth listening to.” Then that small smile turned sideways. “You know, I almost wish this had gone to trial.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “I said ‘almost.’ But getting the case dismissed for insufficient evidence means there’ll be gossip and speculation. It’s not the same as ‘not guilty.’ ”

  I shrugged. “Since when weren’t the Sinclairs the topic of gossip and speculation?”

  I’d meant that lightly, but he frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “No offense. But in case you haven’t noticed, you’re Wesley Sinclair. Our quiet little town has always been fascinated by your family—comes with the territory, your wealth and success. That’s all I mean.”

  He was already raising an apologetic hand. “Brandy, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you or anything. Guess I’m kind of one big raw nerve about now.”

  “Understandable. Anyway, tongues’ll wag for a while, but people have short memories.”

  I didn’t really believe that. Towns like Serenity never forget this kind of thing.

  He shrugged. “I just hope these local police are capable of finding whoever . . .” He couldn’t finish it. His eyes were moist. “Thanks for being such a good friend, Brandy.”

  “Even if my jailhouse advice stunk on ice?”

  “Even if your jailhouse advice stunk on ice.”

  He took my hand, squeezed it, then walked out of the courtroom.

  Mother was nowhere to be seen, she and Mr. Ekhardt off pleading her case to an unsympathetic judge. If she needed me, she’d call my cell.

  The judge had been right about lunchtime, and I was starving, but didn’t care to be seen in a public eatery—those wagging tongues again—so I called my BFF, Tina, at home.

  “Hey, Teen.”

  “Brandy! How are you? Wasn’t that Sinclair thing this morning?”

  “Yup. He walked.”

  “Is that a good outcome?”

  “Very. Got the makings of egg salad sandwiches on hand, by any chance?”

  She made the best.

  Teen chuckled. “Happens I do. Is somebody looking for a free lunch?”

  “Well, the price sounds right, and anyway I’d love to see you . . . and the baby, too.”

  She laughed once, a kind of grunt. “I see where we rate—right after the egg salad.”

  “Everybody needs their priorities. Can I impose?”

  “Sure! Come on over. I was just needing to whip something up anyway. Kevin’s here, too.”

  “Be there in a jiff.”

  Tina and her husband, Kevin, lived in a white ranch-style house on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, a year-round spectacular view. Nothing was more relaxing to me than spending an hour or two on their back patio with a glass of wine, watching the traffic on the water, mostly speedboats but barges as well, hauling cargo downstream as if for my personal entertainment.

  As I pulled the Caddy into the driveway, hunky thirtysomething Kevin, his sandy hair now blond from the sun, was in the process of washing their cars (her black Lexus, his silver Mazda). He filled out his white T-shirt and jeans quite nicely.

  Hey, the guys get to gawk at the gals, don’t they? Turnabout is fair play.

  Kevin, spotting me, shut off the hose, then jogged over as I got out of the Caddy.

  “Now there’s a car I’d love to have,” he said with a smile.

  “You would till you had to fill the gas tank. Got the day off?”

  Kevin used to travel as a sales rep for a drug company, but after the baby arrived, he took a job at a local pharmacy.

  “I get Wednesday off when I have to work the weekend,” he said. “Go on inside. You won’t believe how much B.B. has grown since you saw her last.”

  B.B. was their nickname for Baby Brandy. If she grew up to look like Brigitte Bardot that would come in handy. If anybody remembered who that was, when she grew up.

  “Yeah,” I said, with a sheepish grin, “sorry I’ve been such a stranger—you coming?”

  “In a minute,” he said, and went back to the Mazda. He had priorities, too.

  I entered the house via the front door, weaving through a tastefully decorated if toy-strewn living room, and on into the kitchen, where Tina was at the sink, peeling boiled eggs.

  As usual, she looked beautiful, her features framed by natural blond hair that fell like liquid gold to her shoulders. Of course, I was blond, too. Sorry, no time for further questions.

  Tina, trim but shapely in her bleached jeans and yellow top, turned from her work and gave me a smile. “Long time no see.”

  Was there a tinge of hurt in her words?

  I answered in a nervous tumble of words, making a bunch of excuses—the shop, the pilot, the murder, the hearing—ending with, “So—where’s the little tyke?”

  Tina nodded toward the dining area of the kitchen, where B.B., in a pink sundress, sat on the floor, playing with a doll. She was a living one herself, with her head of yellow curls, blue china eyes, and cupid mouth.

  “Put her in the high chair, would you, Brandy?”

  “Sure.”

  I bent, picked the little girl up, and as Tina turned back to the sink, I held the child tightly, smelling her hair, her baby-powder scent, feeling the so-soft skin against my cheek.

  I squeezed my eyes shut to keep back the tears. B.B. squirmed, and I put her in the high chair, drawing it up to the table.

  Kevin came into the room, crossed over to the sink, and began washing his hands. “Heard on the car radio that Wes got off.”

  Tina, at the counter, spreading the creamy egg mixture on rye bread, said, “I want a complete play-by-play, Brandy. Since I’m sure you and your mother had ringside seats.”

  “No problem,” I replied. “After the egg salad.”

  Tina smirked. “After the egg salad.”

  I spread my hands. “Hey. It’s your fault it’s so good.”

  Tina’s Egg Salad

  8 hard-boiled eggs, peeled and chopped

  3 tbl. mayonnaise

  ½ tbl. honey mustard

  ½ tsp. garlic powder

  1 tbl. chopped
fresh dill

  cp. finely chopped celery

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Mix all ingredients in a bowl, then spread on fresh rye bread layered with spinach leaves. Bon appétit!

  Soon we sat around the oak table, munching the sandwiches (okay, in my case wolfing), swishing them down with lemonade, and talking about everything but the hearing, B.B. joining in, in her own special babble. And when the food was gone, and small talk had dwindled, Kevin took a sleepy B.B. away for her nap.

  Tina and I moved out onto the patio, where we sat in the shade on padded chairs facing the river, the Mississippi hiding its fabled mud under a deceptive sparkling-diamond sheen.

  After I’d filed my report on the hearing, I asked, “Did you know Wes and Vanessa very well?”

  “Not really. Kev and I didn’t exactly run in their social circle.” She took a sip of wine. “But we almost did.”

  “Really? How so?”

  Her eyebrows went up and down; her eyes rolled.

  “What? Spill!”

  “Guess I never told you about something weird that happened to us with Wes and Vanessa. This was a year or so before you came back to town.”

  I waited.

  “Out of the blue, Kevin got this call from Wes—we’d been married, oh, maybe five years. Anyway, Wes wanted to know if we were up for going to Vegas with him and Vanessa and three other couples, and get this—all expenses paid, and we’d fly there in his Learjet.”

  “Whoa. The one Wes keeps at the municipal airport?”

  “Yeah, in the company’s name, but for his private use.”

  I sipped wine. “What other couples?”

  “Brent and Megan Morgan, Travis and Emily Thompson, and Sean and Tiffany Hartman.”

  “His three best buds. They were at the hearing. Go on.”

  She shrugged. “Anyway, since Wes assured us the invite had nothing to do with selling us time-shares or investments or anything . . . we said yes. But then Kev and I found out Wes was going to fly the jet, and that made us wonder.”

  “Why? Does he have a bad rep as a pilot or something?”

  Her eyebrows went up and down again. “No, but when you’re invited on a party jet, and the party includes the pilot . . . ? Well, even though we were a little nervous, Kevin and I still went. Turns out Wes was a really good pilot, and didn’t partake of the beverage service while he was in the cockpit.”