Up Jumps the Devil

Oh, well.

We stood for the singing of a final hymn—“Bringing in the Sheaves”—a last benediction, then we left the shadowy sanctuary and passed into the bright sunshine where red, gold and brown leaves lay thickly on the sidewalk and swirled along the gutters. Last night’s chilly wind had finished stripping the crepe myrtles and maples. The oaks alone still held their brown leaves.

As Cherry Lou Stancil’s court-appointed attorney, Avety Brewer wanted to hear my account of Mr. Jap’s death.

“Too bad she didn’t get to sign the farm back over to him,” I said. “That leaves her going to trial with her primary motive still intact.”

“You never know,” Avery said gamely. “Juries have acquitted with a lot more evidence than a Kmart sales slip for the weapon.”

“Right. And I suppose Millard King’s going to argue accidental discharge of said weapon and have Tig Wentworth plead to involuntary manslaughter?”

Portland grinned at her husband. “Now there’s a thought, honey. She said the shotgun was a present. Maybe her little ol’ son-in-law tripped on a mole run as he was going out to give it to him.”

Avery was not amused and went on ahead to warm up their car.

As the rest of the congregation streamed through the broad oak doors, then clumped for snatches of Sunday morning conversation along the steps and sidewalk, Portland touched my sleeve and drew me aside.

“Can I speak to you a minute, Deborah? Off the record?”

“Sure, Por. What’s up?”

Portland was a Smith before she married Avery Brewer and is Uncle Ash’s brother’s daughter, which makes us courtesy cousins. Not that the courtesy is needed. We’ve been good friends since we got thrown out of the Junior Girls’ class in Sunday school for teasing prissy Caroline Atherton. Indeed, Portland’s one of the reasons I stuck with law. After nearly messing up my life, I looked around to see what my friends were doing with theirs and Portland seemed to be having the most fun.

She and I were still the same height and approximate build, only on her, it looked better. She had short wiry black hair that curled all over her head as if a mad beautician had styled a Persian lamb, and her brown eyes were worried as she drew me even further away from the crowd.

“You remember that contested paternity suit I argued before you a couple of weeks ago?”

“Vaguely. Refresh my memory.”

“Beecham versus Collins? Single mom and cute little girl? I represented the alleged father.”

“Oh, yeah. The one where blood tests proved he couldn’t have fathered the child?”

“That’s the one.”

“So?”

“So day before yesterday—Friday? I got a call from one of Collins’ friends. He’s facing a paternity suit, too, and Collins recommended me.”

“What’s wrong with that? You won the case, why wouldn’t he recommend you?”

“Because I wasn’t Collins’ only recommendation,” Portland said grimly. “This friend tried to be subtle about it, but he asked me to make certain that we used Jamerson Labs and that it’d sure be nice if Mrs. Diana Henderson could be the technician who actually draws the blood and runs the test since she did such a good job for ol’ Tim there, wink-wink, nudge-nudge.”

“What?”

She nodded unhappily.

“He bribed her?”

“Maybe.”

As the implications sank in, I said, “You’re talking perjury here. And subornation of perjury, too. Or conspiracy. And that’s just for starters. Who approached whom?”

If possible, Portland looked even more unhappy. The ethical ground she was walking over at the moment was shakier than Jell-O.

“I don’t know, Deborah. Swear to God. And maybe I’m jumping to conclusions.”

“Do you honestly think so?” I asked her squarely.

Her eyes met mine. “No.”

“Who was the opposing attorney? Ambrose Daughtridge? I want your client and Mrs. Henderson in my courtroom first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Ex-client,” Portland said hastily.

“Whichever.”

“We’ll be there.” She gave my arm a squeeze, then with her wiry dark curls bouncing in the sunlight, she hurried over to the curb where Avery waited in their car.

As I started to cross the street to my own car, a white pickup stopped in the crosswalk in front of me and my nephew Reese leaned over and pushed open the passenger door.

“Want to buy me a cup of coffee?” he asked.