over the road, only weaving a bit inside the lines of his lane.
When both sides rested, I said, “Sir, I suspect you had more than the two beers you told us about, but that’s not the evidence before me, and the law requires me to rule on the evidence, not on what I suspect. You were probably impaired and you shouldn’t have been driving, but under the law, you were not
The man immediately turned to Zack and vigorously shook his hand.
Zack’s probably the best defense attorney in the district even though he likes to play the shambling good ol’ boy who probably thinks a tort is a kind of turtle. His fee was going to prove an expensive lesson in the cost of drunk driving for this defendant.
Throughout the session, Ellen Hamilton had taken extensive notes in a black leatherbound notebook, and there was a look of disapproval on her face when I pronounced the last man not guilty.
She caught up with me out in the hall. “How do you know it wasn’t someone weaving all over the road that caused poor little Mallory Johnson to wreck her car?” she demanded.
“I don’t,” I said. “Do you?”
“No, but why else would she have crashed on a straight stretch of road?
“I guess we’ll never know, will we?”
“Don’t be too sure. And if it turns out to be somebody you bleeding hearts let slide by—”
“Gosh, Ellen,” I said, glancing pointedly at my watch. “I’d love to stay and talk to you about it, but I’m already late for an appointment.”
No way was I going to tell her my appointment was with a baby girl who would turn one year old next Tuesday. Carolyn Deborah Brewer was bright-eyed and intelligent, but she hadn’t quite grasped the concept of clocks yet.
CHAPTER 6
Lunch was a steaming cup of tomato soup with slices of spinach quiche for Portland and me. The baby had strained carrots and spinach for her entree and pureed peaches for dessert. Throughout the meal, we played peekaboo with my napkin and her bib till Portland threatened to send us from the table before we knocked something over.
She and Avery are both attorneys and their home is only a few short blocks from the courthouse, so I get to see little Carolyn often enough that she’s not shy with me. She was born about eighteen hours after her mother walked down the aisle in a red velvet matron of honor dress last December—my brothers had a pool going as to whether or not the baby would arrive in the middle of our wedding. Like most babies, she was more interested in the paper and bow on the brightly wrapped birthday gift I had brought than in the adorable plaid taffeta dress inside the box.
I cleared away our lunch dishes while Portland put Carolyn down for a nap, then we carried our tea glasses out to the sunroom, where we could kick back and put our feet up on the large wrought iron table that was surrounded by mismatched white wicker chairs with their comfy red-and-white cushions. Trays of crisp red geraniums lined the wide low ledges beneath the windows that formed two walls of the room. Funky pots of greenery were clustered in the corners—ferns, dieffenbachia, schefflera, and a snake plant that had belonged to her mother and was now about six feet tall. Strings of small clear lights twinkled amid the plants and cinnamon scented candles gave a Christmassy smell to the air.
Table, wicker chairs, and funky pots had all been picked up at flea markets or garage sales and had been refurbished to make this comfortable room uniquely Portland’s. I knew for a fact that one of those pots had come from the landfill outside town. To Avery’s deep embarrassment, his wife would rather go Dumpster diving than shop in a regular store. After all these years, he still doesn’t get it that Portland’s junking expeditions are the equivalent of his fly-fishing—the thrill of the chase, never knowing if you’re going to snag an old boot or a nice rainbow trout.
“Where has the time gone?” Portland moaned as she sank into one of the chairs and leaned her head back against the colorful cushion. Her thick dark curly hair could use a trim and her bright red nails were due a manicure, two bits of grooming that were never neglected in the pre-baby days.
“I can’t believe she’s going to be a year old next Tuesday. Did you see the way she pulls up now? She’ll be walking by her birthday. At the rate time’s flying, I’m gonna turn around next week and she’ll be off to kindergarten.”
I toasted my namesake’s pulling-up with my glass of iced tea. “And begging for her driver’s license about six weeks after that.”
“Well, she can beg till she’s blue in the face. Avery says she’s not getting the keys to any car till she’s twenty- five.” Her face darkened. “Wasn’t it awful about Sarah and Malcolm Johnson’s daughter? Have you heard anything about funeral arrangements?”
“Not yet. I haven’t even heard how it actually happened. You?”
“Not really. At the office, someone said that she’d been to a Christmas party and left early because she was getting a cold.”
“Emma’s on the cheerleading team and said Mallory texted them a reminder about a photography session for the yearbook on Thursday. Probably one of the last things she did before she crashed.”
“Cell phones!” Portland exclaimed. “There ought to be a governor or something that would keep them from working while the car’s moving.”
“You invent one the kids can’t disconnect or override and I’ll invest in it,” I told her, and added wryly, “You could put it on the same circuit as the seat belt alarm.”
She smiled, knowing how much I dislike the way mine starts its annoying
