Marcia Talley - Daughter of Ashes

‘Whoa, Nellie! Are you saying that Kendall and Clifton Ames were once an item?’

‘It’s common knowledge, Hannah. Happened not long after Dwight started dating Grace. But if Kendall hoped to make Dwight jealous, she failed miserably. Grace was, is a treasure and Dwight knew it.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘He married Grace just like that. And just look at them,’ she continued. ‘See the way he looks at her when she’s talking, like what she’s saying is the most important thing in all the world, like The Sermon on the Mount or something.’

But I was looking in the other direction, toward the rear of the sanctuary where Clifton Ames seemed to be pointing out something in the program to the sheriff. How come he got a copy and I didn’t? I thought sourly. ‘Is Sheriff Hubbard a music-lover?’ I asked Caitlyn.

‘Andy? Nah. Not sure why he’s here.’ She nudged me with her elbow. ‘Expecting trouble from the brass section, maybe?’

‘Maybe he’s keeping his eye on a suspect,’ I suggested.

‘Well, I think he’s interviewed pretty much everybody in town. Half of them are in this room tonight, you’ll notice.’

‘He interviewed you, too?’

‘Oh, yeah. They even asked for a DNA swab – for purposes of elimination.’

‘You gave them one?’ I asked.

‘Sure. Why not? I didn’t kill the stupid bitch.’

Nobody had asked Paul or me for a DNA sample, but I didn’t tell Caitlyn that. Fortunately, I was saved from having to think of a way to gracefully change the subject by the conductor’s return to the podium. Within seconds, the orchestra was off and running with the Mendelssohn.

When the concert was over, Caitlyn and I followed the crowd out to the meditation garden on the east side of the church where a table had been set up to serve lemonade and assorted cookies and cakes donated by the Women’s Fellowship. My hand was hovering over the platter of chocolate-chip cookies with the hope of landing on the one having the most chocolate chips when Sheriff Hubbard approached us.

‘Caitlyn Dymond, may I speak with you for a moment, please?’

Caitlyn laughed. ‘My, how formal we’re being this evening, Andy. Have some lemonade,’ she added, gesturing at the table with her acrylic glass. ‘You’ve been working too hard.’

Hubbard didn’t smile and made no move toward the lemonade.

‘What?’ Caitlyn said, her face suddenly ashen. ‘It’s Boyd, isn’t it? Something’s happened to Boyd!’

With her free hand, Caitlyn grabbed my arm and squeezed. ‘Oh, Hannah, if something’s happened to Boyd, I’ll just die!’

‘It’s not Boyd, Mrs Dymond. Is there someplace we can go where we can talk?’

Caitlyn stiffened. Lemonade sloshed over the rim of her glass and dribbled over her hand, but I don’t think she noticed. ‘Andy Hubbard, you tell me now or I’m not moving from this spot!’

Hubbard flushed; sweat beaded his brow. ‘Caitlyn Dymond, I am arresting you for the murder of Kendall Barfield.’ As if on cue, Hubbard’s deputy materialized out of the boxwood, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his hand.

‘Noooo!’ she moaned as Hubbard read Caitlyn her rights.

‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.’

I grabbed Caitlyn by the arm and pulled her close. ‘Do not say anything, Caitlyn, you hear me? Tell him you want to call your attorney. Tell him now.’

‘I don’t have an attorney, Hannah,’ she croaked. The acrylic glass she held cracked and fell to the lawn in pieces as the deputy gently turned her around and, looking up at me apologetically, handcuffed Caitlyn’s hands behind her back.

‘Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?’ Hubbard said.

Caitlyn nodded.

‘Yes or no? I’m sorry, Caitlyn, but you have to say it.’

Her voice wavered, but she managed a quiet, ‘Yes.’

The chit-chat in the garden had died down. The burry chirp of an evening grosbeak filled the sudden silence; a car somewhere in the distance tooted its horn. ‘I can’t say anything to you without a lawyer present.’ Caitlyn’s eyes locked on mine. ‘My children! What about my children!’ she shouted into the crowd of concertgoers as they parted to let the officers dragging Caitlyn weeping and stumbling through.

‘Someone from Social Services…’ Hubbard began.

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ I shouted. I lurched after Caitlyn. ‘I’ll pick up the kids, don’t worry. When you get to the station, call Boyd. You hear me? Tell him that I have the children. He’ll know what to do.’

‘I didn’t do it, Hannah,’ she wailed. ‘Honestly, this is all a huge mistake!’

‘Couldn’t this have waited until Monday morning?’ I snapped at the sheriff’s heels as his deputy folded Caitlyn into the back seat of the police vehicle and closed the door. ‘I can’t think of anyone who is less of a flight risk than Caitlyn. You know that as well as I do.’

‘The warrant came through at the end of the day and I didn’t want to wait until morning to serve it,’ the sheriff explained.

I knew the tactic. Arrest the suspect late on Friday and let them languish in a cell over the weekend, breaking down their resistance while waiting to be arraigned when the court convened again on Monday morning. It seemed a dirty trick to play on the mother of three young children whose husband was a Weekend Warrior sacrificing family time to serve his country.

Caitlyn had slumped in the back seat of the patrol car, her head bowed as if trying to make herself as small as possible. I rapped on the window to attract her attention, pressed my fingers against the glass. ‘I’ll make some calls. Stay quiet. Stay cool.’

On the other side of the glass, Caitlyn, with tears streaming down her face, pressed her fingertips to mine.

The sun had not yet risen the following morning before there was a knock at my front door. I crawled out of bed, staggered to the bedroom window and pulled the curtain aside. In the gray light of dawn I saw a Honda Pilot parked in the drive. I opened the window and called out, ‘I’ll be right down,’ to whomever might be standing on the porch below.

I crawled into a pair of jeans, threw a T-shirt over my head and padded barefoot down to the front door. I opened it a crack and peered out.

‘I’m Boyd Dymond, Mrs Ives,’ my visitor said, although I hardly needed the introduction. Caitlyn’s husband was dressed in rumpled camouflage fatigues and combat boots caked with dried mud. ‘I’m here to pick up the kids.’

‘Come in, come in,’ I said, holding the door wide. ‘They’re still asleep upstairs. By the time I got them tucked into the sleeping bags we use for the grandkids, it was kind of a late night. Let’s not wake them up just yet.’ I studied his swollen eyelids, the ravaged, unshaven face. ‘Looks like you could use a cup of coffee.’

‘Frankly,’ Boyd said, stepping into the entrance hall, his camouflage cap crushed in one beefy hand, ‘I’m all coffeed out, but I could sure use a glass of ice water.’

I got Boyd settled in the kitchen with a tall glass of ice water, then made myself a cup of coffee and joined him at the table. ‘How’s Caitlyn?’

‘She’s still at the county jail,’ he told me. ‘She’ll be arraigned on Monday.’

‘On what possible evidence?’ I asked.

Boyd pressed a thumb and forefinger to either side of his nose and massaged his tired eyes. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’

‘What?’

‘Caitlyn was pissed, really pissed about that salesperson of the year thing. The guy who won the trip?’