Killer Market

According to her testimony, Mr. Kurkland proceeded to lay a plastic sheet between the rug and the Berber carpet. The description of his cleaning process sounded careful enough to me. He had first tested for colorfastness, then handwashed the rug on his hands and knees, rinsing and toweling as he went. According to Mrs. Westermann, though, “he left it so wet, it took two days to dry and when it did dry, it was faded and splotched.”

“Describe your rug before Mr. Kurkland cleaned it,” said her attorney.

“It was beautiful,” she mourned. “Vibrant and glowing with jewel-like colors.”

The rug had been entered as Exhibit A and her attorney now asked for permission to show it. I agreed and it was unrolled on the floor in front of my bench. I must say that while I know almost nothing about Oriental rugs, they do appeal to me and I’d been into several of the showrooms devoted to them here at Market, wondering if I could afford a decent reproduction of my own. This one had a dark red background woven in an all-over geometric design. Mrs. Westermann’s authentic article might have been vibrant and jewel-toned at one time. Now it seemed to have faded unevenly in places, so that four or five areas were almost gray, as if someone had sprinkled a light dusting of ashes over those places.

Mr. Kurkland’s attorney seemed curiously non-combative.

“Mrs. Westennann, did you comparison shop for a carpet-cleaner?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Was Mr. Kurkland’s the lowest price you got?”

“Well, yes. I saw no point in spending extra—”

“Thank you. Did Mr. Kurkland advise you that it was best to have the rug cleaned at his establishment where he had a proper drying table?”

“Well, yes, but I was planning a dinner party and I was afraid it might not be returned in time.”

“And you are convinced it was his ineptitude that caused these spots instead of your Lhasa Apsos?”

“Absolutely. They know they aren’t allowed in there. Mr. Kurkland got my rug too wet. That’s all there is to it.”

“I see. No further questions.”

Her attorney now called a carpet expert, a small tidy man who described how a fine Oriental should be cleaned: by hand, on a drying table, one tiny section at a time.

“If a rug has been frequently vacuumed and properly cared for, what soil there is should lie mostly on top of the pile. You only want to dampen the upper surface, using the mildest soap possible. Then you immediately sponge it with clear water and blot up all the excess dampness with clean white rags or white paper towels. No patterns or colors,” he warned the jury earnestly. “Only white.”

“So there should have been no need for that sheet of plastic between the rug and Mrs. Westermann’s wall-to- wall carpeting?”

“Technically, no. But if he was in the habit of using too much water, then it was certainly a necessity to prevent soaking the undercarpet. On the other hand, plastic would hold the excess water next to the rug and prevent the rug from drying more rapidly.”

In his expert opinion, Mrs. Westermann’s fine Turkoman had indeed been damaged by improper cleaning.

Since Mr. Kurkland’s attorney had not challenged the man’s credentials, I wondered what sort of defense he planned. On cross-examination, his only questions pertained to how one cleans away dog urine.

“Unfortunately, there is no way,” said the expert. “The ammonia and uric acids soak right into the wool and attach themselves so that they’re impossible to get out in any way that wouldn’t do more harm to the rag itself.”

He was asked if the faded splotches on the rug might not be due to dog urine. He hedged. When finally pinned down, he grudgingly agreed that they were not entirely inconsistent, but it remained his firm conviction that the rag had been damaged by too much water.

His was the longest testimony and when Mr. Kurkland’s attorney finished with him, Mrs. Westermann’s attorney announced that the plaintiff rested.

Mr. Kurkland’s attorney rose and made a pro forma request for dismissal, citing a lack of conclusive evidence to prove his client’s negligence.

I refused and broke for lunch at that point, after warning the jurors not to discuss the case among themselves.

Detective Underwood was waiting out in the hallway when I exited the courtroom. He said he was there to testify in a case being held in the next courtroom and thought that as long as he was so close, he’d put my mind at rest about Savannah’s black sports car.

“I ran a check on all vehicular incidents in a fifty-mile radius for that week. Not one single hit-and-run reported.”

I was deflated. I’d almost talked myself into a scenario of teenage carelessness and delusional mother-love and sacrifice.

Beyond a casual “poor dears” shrug when they were mentioned, Drew had seemed indifferent both to the Colliers’ cut in income and to the loss of business Kay Adams and Poppy Jackson would experience if Fitch and Patterson withdrew from their stores. I was almost convinced that such indifference signified a deeper callousness that would allow her to shrug off a hit-and-run, especially if Savannah had urged her to; and now Underwood was telling me that the hit-and-run never happened?

What did that do to my theory that Savannah had killed Chan in a misguided attempt to protect Drew from the heartache of his many affairs?

“Shoots it all to hell, don’t it?” the pragmatist said sourly.

“What about Heather McKenzie?” I asked.

“Well, yesterday being Sunday, she was a little harder. But not much. Turns out her father was a personal