Authors: Lorena McCourtney
Haley didn’t take a newspaper, another one of her not-until-I-get-my-student-loans-paid-off economies, but from radio and TV news I learned that Bruce Retzloff, manager at Bottom-Buck Barney’s, had been charged in connection with the stolen vehicles scheme. Several of the cars in his personal collection were under investigation, including a ’64 Mustang. There were also a couple of news items about restoration work begun at Country Peace. No mention of Drake Braxton.
I had several conferences with the prosecuting attorney about my testimony for the upcoming trial. Haley whisked me off to these in a taxi. I was surprised she didn’t insist on a paper bag over my head.
From Dix I learned that Tiffany had taken a job with a wholesale plumbing supply company. She and Ronnie were a steady couple, going to church regularly, even joining a Wednesday evening Bible study group. Dix also said there was a For Sale sign on Thea’s house now, which brought back again how much I missed her.
But everything else was going along so smoothly that by the time six weeks had elapsed I was thinking maybe I could just quietly move back home. An idea I quickly discarded when Magnolia reported to Dix that someone had come around claiming to be from an out-of-state firm seeking to find me in connection with a considerable inheritance.
Phony as a three-dollar bill, of course, which meant my caller had not forgotten me. I resigned myself to waiting out the trial date.
Which arrived only to be postponed until after the first of the year. Then postponed for another fifteen days.
During that time two pleasing events took place. Dix went forward to acknowledge his decision for the Lord and to request baptism. And he and Haley announced they’d be getting married in mid-February.
At that point, considering how things were turning out for Dix and Haley, and Tiffany and Ronnie, I had to admit that the Lord hadn’t needed my matchmaking help. He’d had his own plans all along. He was also a much better matchmaker than I could ever be.
One other nice little event. Mac sent a copy of a travel magazine with his byline on an article about Clancy’s Meteor Daze. It was titled “Celestial Fireflies.”
Then the long-awaited day was here. The day Beaumont “Bo” Zollinger’s trial began. And on the third day it was my turn to testify.
I was not allowed in the courtroom before testifying. I was stuck off in a room by myself where I couldn’t hear the other testimony, under the logical theory that one person’s testimony might be swayed or contaminated by testimony given by another witness. Although I did understand that much of the earlier testimony would be from expert witnesses concerning the bullets and other technical and police evidence.
At this point I already knew the prosecuting attorney had decided there was insufficient evidence to charge Bo with killing Ray Etheridge. I regretted that, but I knew the prosecutors must work with what they had.
The courtroom was crowded when I took the witness stand. I knew Dix and Haley were there, but the faces blended into one big blur. I was uncertain whether this came from nerves or a need to have an eye exam and new glasses. Probably both. Although one face stood out clearly—Bo’s glowering at me from between his lawyers at the defendant’s table. I kept wondering who he’d put up to making that call to me.
Not that it matters now,
I thought with a defiant stare back at him.
Because here I am.
And testify I did. For almost an hour and a half. Then cross-examination by the defense attorneys.
I could have attended the remainder of the trial, which lasted more than a week after my testimony, but I didn’t do it. Testifying had taken more out of me than I realized it would. I’d have had to stiffen up to be limp as a dishrag.
But there was one event for which I was determined to be present, and the assistant prosecuting attorney promised to call me when that time came.
The call came at 10:25 on a Wednesday morning. The assistant said the jury had just been issued their instructions by the judge.
“There’s no telling how long the jury will be out, of course,” he said. “Could be a few hours or a few days. But if you want to be sure of being here when they bring in their verdict—”
“I’m on my way.”
Which wasn’t totally accurate. I was in the middle of— what else?—washing my hair. I didn’t bother to try to give it any style. I just did a fast towel dry, ignoring the clump that stood up like a toadstool on the back of my head, and called a taxi. I knew Dix and Haley would be disappointed to miss this, but both were working today.
So there I sat in the back of the courtroom, waiting with a whole crowd of people for the jury to return. I didn’t want to discuss the case or my part in it with anyone, so I kept my eyes on the magazine I’d brought, Haley’s current issue of
Today’s Librarian.
A little short on fascination, even if I wasn’t nervous enough to shred the pages rather than read them. What if they let Bo go?
Finally, just before 4:00, a kind of wave rippled through the courtroom. The jury was returning. There were the formalities before the verdict was announced, and then it came.
Guilty!
Sentencing wouldn’t be until the following week, but this was what mattered. Guilty!
Bo stood there looking as if he’d like to avalanche blue barrels down on the whole world, but I didn’t care. Now I knew this truly was over for me. I could go home and return to normal life. Collect my own mail. Resubscribe to the newspaper. Go to Magnolia’s barbecues. She’d hinted through Dix that she had a new man for me to meet. Maybe I’d buy my own computer.
So I walked down the hallway with an upbeat swing in my walk—only to get a prickle across my scalp and an uneasy feeling between my shoulder blades. Not anything as specific as a tap on the back or a nudge from behind. Just a feeling as if the spot had been targeted with an icy laser beam. I cautiously turned and looked behind me.
Drake Braxton.
Okay, so what,
I said to myself as I took an awkward step backward. He hadn’t seen me watching him at the cemetery. He couldn’t blame me that his scheme to grab Country Peace hadn’t worked. I already knew he hadn’t even trashed my house. He probably didn’t even know who I was.
His first words disproved that hopeful thought.
“Mrs. Malone,” he said, with a smile like an eager guillotine operator sharpening his equipment.
And just why,
I wondered uneasily,
is he here at this trial?
He didn’t wait for me to acknowledge or deny the identification. He got right down to business. “We’re going to get you. No one does to one of the Braxton brothers what you did and gets away with it. We will get you.”
I was scared enough to go lightheaded. For all I knew he planned to carry out the threat right there in the hallway. But I was confused too. “Braxton brothers?” I squeaked.
“The fact that Bo is my half brother doesn’t make him any less a Braxton. And the Braxtons stick together. You didn’t do me any favors either.”
So he had connected me with that letter to the editor urging restoration of the cemetery. “How . . . how many brothers are there?”
“Enough to do you in. So these are your last days, Mrs. Malone. Better enjoy them. Because as of right now, lady, you’re roadkill.”
I looked around wildly. There were several other people standing close by. “These people heard you threaten me.” I motioned to them. “If anything happens to me—”
“Allow me to introduce one of my sons,” Drake said. He didn’t offer a name, but he gestured toward a young man beside him—big, burly, and as mean-looking as Drake himself.
Another gesture. “That’s Bo’s son. And their lovely wives, of course.”
Four—count ’em, four—feral smiles. Plus Drake’s.
I reeled over and slumped against the wall as the family trooped by. I wanted to protest.
Hey, I’m not the only one who testified and convicted Bo!
But I knew it didn’t matter. It was me, muddling around in all this and bowling with barrels out at Thrif-Tee Wrecking, who had been instrumental in bringing Bo down. Was Drake Braxton also the one who had made the pre-trial threatening phone call? I didn’t have Tiffany’s talent for recognizing voices, and I had no idea. Or maybe it was one of the sons.
Okay, I could go to the authorities with this.
And get where? Drake would simply deny my accusation, shake his beefy head, and act baffled that I’d made up such an incredible accusation. Maybe he’d even imply that my mental state was so unstable that my testimony was worthless and that his brother Bo deserved a new trial.
I could tell Dix and Haley, who would undoubtedly insist on hiding me away even longer. No, I couldn’t do that. I was not their continuing responsibility. They had lives to live, a marriage to get on with.
I took another taxi home and drove the Thunderbird over to Haley’s that evening to collect my things and thank them both. I kept up a breezy, cheerful front. Trial is over, guilty man convicted, and everything’s fine now.
Then I went home to talk to the Lord and see what his solution to this new problem was.
By morning it was there, but I hesitated.
Are you sure, Lord? Wouldn’t that be running away?
But then I reminded myself that I’d trusted the Lord so far in this life, and I wasn’t going to stop now. The Lord would most certainly be with me
there
just as he’d always been
here
.
So I decided I’d do it. We’d make it just a temporary arrangement, of course, just until Drake Braxton’s hostility simmered down.
Thank you, Lord.
One invisible lady should surely be able to live a safe and uneventful life hidden in the bosom of a loving family in small-town Arkansas.
Right?
Contact the author:
Lorena McCourtney
P.O. Box 773
Merlin, OR 97532
Visit the website at:
Don’t miss the next book in
the Ivy Malone Mysteries
by Lorena McCourtney:
In Plain Sight
available April 2005
from Fleming H. Revell
Turn the page for a preview of
In Plain
Sight
1
In spite of the threats, I’d held on to a small hope that the danger would, given a little time, fade away. The phone call I’ve just received has squashed that hopeful fantasy.
The Braxtons are not fading away.
Because of my role in convicting his brother of murder, one mean, beefy Drake Braxton vowed at the end of the trial to make roadkill out of me. There are apparently more Braxtons eager to help in this endeavor. Their homicidal intentions were made all too clear when my house caught fire, with me in it, a couple of weeks ago. Intentions thwarted in the small-blaze stage only because of the observant eyes of my good . . . and nosy . . . neighbor, Magnolia Margollin.
Although I recently discovered that I have aged into a semi-invisible state, I’m afraid I may not be invisible enough to evade the Braxtons’ murderous intentions toward me. This phone call threatening dire damage to various portions of my anatomy is further proof of those intentions. The prudent action at this point appears to be to remove myself from the danger zone for a time.
Ever since the death of my best friend Thea, my niece DeeAnn Harrington has been urging me to come stay with her and her family in their big house near the small town of Woodston, Arkansas. She’s also suggested I should consider living with, or close to, them permanently.
I’m reasonably certain I don’t want to make a permanent move. Harley and I bought this house here on Madison Street in Missouri many years ago, and, though Harley is gone and the area has deteriorated in the past few years, it’s still home to me. But I’ve been talking it over with the Lord, and a temporary visit down there in the lovely Ozarks appears to be a fine solution to my problem.
I picked up the phone and dialed DeeAnn’s number. My fourteen-year-old grand-niece Sandy answered.
“Oh, Aunt Ivy, you should see what I just crocheted! It’s a candy-pink top that’s just awesome. I can’t wait for some nice spring weather to wear it.”
I’d helped Sandy learn to crochet the last time I was down for a visit. Now, with a certain apprehension about teenage apparel, I asked, “Does it show your belly button?”
“Of course!”
“Does your mother know?”
“I’m going to show it to her.” Considered pause. “Soon.”
I didn’t intend to jump into the middle of that, so I just said, “Could I speak to DeeAnn, please?”
“Are you going to come visit us again? Oh, I hope so! But you need to come right away, before—”
“Maybe,” I cut in.
“Okay, I’ll get Mom. She’s upstairs sorting through some towels and stuff to pick out things that match.”
That seemed odd. DeeAnn is a good enough housekeeper, but she doesn’t usually fuss about such things as whether her towels coordinate. She came on the line a minute later.
“Aunt Ivy, how good to hear from you! I heard on the news that they sentenced that awful man who murdered your neighbor, but I couldn’t get you when I tried to call. And everything has been in such an uproar here that I didn’t get around to trying again.”
Uproar was the usual state of existence in the Harrington household. The twins, Rick and Rory, were off at college in California now, but DeeAnn was financial secretary at their church, created puppet shows featuring Korman the Klutzy Kangaroo for the kids, and kept books for several small businesses in Woodston. Sandy practiced gymnastics in an upstairs hallway, zoomed around on her skateboard, kept in touch with people from Arkansas to Zanzibar on the Internet, and sometimes had the guys in a local Christian rock band over to practice. Husband Mike did executive things with an expanding roofing manufacturer and was up to his elbows in activities aimed at keeping the teens in a church youth group busy.
“Maybe I can help,” I said to DeeAnn. “There have been some, uh, unforeseen developments here, and I’m thinking I might take you up on your invitation to come visit for a while.”
“Oh, Aunt Ivy . . .”
It didn’t take extrasensory powers to hear the dismay in her voice. “If it isn’t convenient now, maybe some other time,” I amended hastily.