Diana served a shrimp creole over steamed rice with a garden salad and fresh corn muffins dripping in butter. Carson opened a prized 1968 Chateau Margaux. The guests ate and drank and made small talk, but weren’t sure what they were doing there. There had been few dinner parties at the house since Althea died, and certainly none like this one.
“We seem to have ourselves a bit of a dilemma,” Carson said as soon as the chocolate mousse had been served, and the coffee cups filled. “We have one dead police detective, and three potential perpetrators.”
Maynard Purcell, Randy Hitchens, and Lauren Scott all stared at their host, and then at one another. Helen Purcell, Maynard’s wife and Lauren’s mother, just look confused.
“Now just a minute,” Purcell began, as his daughter opened her mouth to speak.
“I don’t know what you think you know,” Lauren exclaimed.
And Randy Hitchens slumped in his chair and wondered if this was an ambush.
“Just settle down, all of you,” Carson advised. “It should occur to you that Lily and I invited you here for a reason. Maynard, you came to me. Randy, you went to Lily. And Lauren, well, it was only a matter of time before you would have had to talk to someone. Now we think we just might have a way to deal with this mess, and we think you should listen.”
Three of the guests said nothing.
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Helen Purcell declared.
“Never mind, Mother,” her husband said. He turned to his host. “All right, we’re listening.”
. . .
“Did you and your father get it all worked out last night?” Dancer asked the following morning. He was all packed up, he had filled the 4-Runner with gas, he had said his goodbyes to Carson and to Diana, and he was ready to go.
“Most of it,” Lily told him.
“And do you think you’ve figured out what really happened?”
“Oddly enough, I think I have,” she said.
“Can you fix it?”
“I can try.”
The man from Spokane smiled. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you,” he said.
“That goes both ways,” Lily said, and meant it.
“Well, if you ever stick your nose in another thorn bush, and need a shadow again,” he told her, thrusting out his hand, “keep my card.”
Lily ignored the outstretched hand and instead threw her arms around him in a big bear hug.
“You know I will,” she said. “In spite of all my efforts, you’ve been in my face, in my way, and in my corner, and I’ll never forget it. I’ll probably be looking over my shoulder for you for months, and each and every time, I’ll be disappointed that you’re not there.”
John Dancer didn’t embarrass easily, but his face felt suddenly warm. He knew she wasn’t going to mention the Jansen cottage, and she knew he wouldn’t, either.
“I could’ve done better,” he told her, “but I’m glad it all worked out.”
. . .
It was drizzling as Lily drove herself to the courthouse, which would later be noted by the statisticians as the first official rain of the season. Temperatures had receded into the more normal fifties. The air-conditioning had been turned off. Summer clothes had disappeared.
In a navy wool gabardine suit and high heels, Lily made her way into the courthouse and up to the third floor. Her appointment was for ten o’clock. She knew how John Henry liked punctuality and, on this occasion, she intended to be right on time.
“This must be important,” John Henry said, rising as Lily entered his office. He gestured her to the chair in front of his desk, and then sat back down. Tom Lickliter was there, too, standing at the window.
“It might be,” Lily responded. “And in case you’re wondering why I asked for this meeting, I’m here to give you official notice. As of nine o’clock this morning, I am representing Randy Hitchens, and therefore any future conversations you might wish to have with him will not take place without my being present.”
John Henry had indeed been wondering why she had requested this meeting, but to tell him she was representing Randy Hitchens had never entered his mind. “I see,” he said, to cover his surprise.
“Are you planning any such conversations?”
“Let’s not beat around the bush, Lily,” the prosecutor declared. “You know damn well we’re looking hard at him.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “Which is why I’m here.”
“I’m listening.”
“And I’m talking -- as long as it’s understood that every word spoken from this moment on is off the record.”
John Henry glanced at Tom, who shrugged. He looked back at Lily. “I’m still listening,” he said.
“All right then, I’ll tell you a story,” she began. “A story of three people who are ready to go to the gallows, if necessary, to protect one another. The first is a woman who, for years, suffered incredible brutality in her own home, at the hands of a man she was supposed to be able to trust. The second is a police officer who befriended her, realized her predicament, and tried to help. The third is a respected patriarch of this community who, among many others, brought me safely into this world and, I suspect, has been waiting patiently for me to somehow return the favor.”
“Maynard Purcell is involved in this?” John Henry breathed.
Lily ignored the question. “Just for argument’s sake,” she continued, “let’s say the woman’s husband is a cocaine addict, an addiction that makes his behavior totally unpredictable, one minute calm and the next violent, with the result that she lives in constant fear for her life, and the lives of her children. And one night among many -- let’s say, one night in February -- the husband goes off the deep end, beats her viciously, and tells her that if he ever lays eyes on her again, he’ll
