More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

the day before your wife died, correct?”

Not before she was murdered. Always keep it neutral.

“Yes.”

“And you’d hired him several times before, right?”

“Yes.”

“Starting when?”

“I don’t know, maybe six months ago.”

“How long have you known that Jerry lived in Hamilton?”

“I guess five, six years.”

“So even though you’ve known him for six years, you never hired him before last spring?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Even though you had plenty of opportunities to.”

“No. But I was going to say—”

“Now June second was what day of the week, Mr. Cabot?”

After a glance at the judge, Cabot said, “I don’t remember.”

“It was a Friday.”

“If you say so,” the witness replied churlishly.

“I don’t say so, Mr. Cabot. My Hallmark calendar does.” And he held up a pocket calendar emblazoned with a photo of fuzzy puppies.

A wheeze of laughter from several members of the jury.

“And what time of day was he supposed to do the work?”

“I don’t know.”

“Early?”

“Not real early.”

“‘Not real early,’” Lescroix repeated slowly. Then snapped, “Wasn’t it in fact late afternoon and evening?”

“Maybe it was.”

Frowning, pacing. “Isn’t it odd that you hired somebody to do yard work on a Friday night?”

“It wasn’t night. It was dusk and—”

“Please answer the question.”

“It didn’t occur to me there was anything odd about it.”

“I see. Could you tell us exactly what you hired him to do?”

A surly glance from Cabot. Then: “He mowed the lawn and took away some rotten firewood.”

“Rotten?”

“Well, termite infested.”

“Was it all termite infested?”

Cabot looked at the prosecutor, whose milky face shone with concern, and then at the D.A.’s young assistant, who would probably have been concerned too if he hadn’t been so confused at the moment. Jerry Pilsett merely flicked his earlobe and stared morosely at the floor.

“Go ahead,” the judge prompted. “Answer the question.”

“I don’t know. I saw termite holes. I have a wood-framed house and I didn’t want to take the chance they’d get into the house.”

“So you saw some evidence of termites but the pile of wood wasn’t completely rotten, was it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not.” Cabot gave an uneasy laugh.

“So there was some — maybe a lot — of good wood there.”

“Maybe. What difference—?”

“But for some reason you wanted Jerry Pilsett to haul the entire pile away. And to do so on this particular Friday night.”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“To get to the truth,” Lescroix spat out. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? Now, tell us, sir, was the pile of wood covered with anything?”

A slight frown. He’d only be wondering why Lescroix was focusing on this fact but the result was a wonderfully suspicious expression.

“Yes. By an old tarp.”

“And was the tarp stacked to the ground?”

“Yes, it was.”

“And you’d put the tarp over the wood yourself?”

“Yes.”

“When?” Lescroix demanded.

“I don’t remember.”

“No? Could it have been just a few days before you hired Jerry?”

“No…. Well, maybe.”

“Did Jerry say anything about the tarp?”

“I don’t recall.”

Lescroix said patiently, “Didn’t Jerry say to you that the stakes were pounded into the ground too hard to pull out and that he’d have to loosen them somehow to uncover the wood?”

Cabot looked up at the judge, uneasy. He swallowed again, seemed to think about taking a sip of water but didn’t. Maybe his hands were shaking too badly. “Do I have to answer these questions?”

“Yes, you do,” the judge said solemnly.

“Maybe.”

“And did you tell him there were some tools in the garage he could use if he needed them?”

Another weighty pause. Cabot sought the answer in the murky plaster heaven above them. “I might have.”

“Ah.” Lescroix’s face lit up. Easily half the jury was with him now, floating along with the music, wondering where the tune was going. “Could you tell our friends on the jury how many tools you have in your garage, sir?”

“For Christ’s sake, I don’t know.”

A sacrilege in front of the jury. Deliciously bad form.

“Let me be more specific,” Lescroix said helpfully. “How many hammers do you own?”

“Hammers?” He glanced at the murder weapon, a claw hammer, sitting, brown with his wife’s stale blood, on the prosecution’s table. The jury looked at it too.

“Just one. That one.”

“So,” Lescroix’s voice rose, “when you told Jerry to get a tool from the garage to loosen the stakes you’d pounded into the ground, you knew there was only one tool he could pick. That hammer right there?”

“No…. I mean, I don’t know what he used—”

“You didn’t know he used that hammer to loosen the stakes?”

“Well, I knew that. Yes. But… “The eyes grew dark. “Why’re you ac—?”

“Why am I what, sir?”

Cabot sat back.

Lescroix leaned toward the witness. “Accusing you? Is that what you were going to say? Why would I accuse you of anything?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry.”

The judge muttered, “Okay, Mr. Lescroix. Let’s move along.”

“Of course, Your Honor. And therefore, as a result of directing him to use that hammer, his fingerprints are now on the murder weapon. Isn’t that the case?”

Cabot stared at the prosecutor’s disgusted face. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”