Last Puzzle & Testament (4 page)

But not if Cora could help it.

So, Becky Baldwin was just passing through?

Passing through, hell.

Cora Felton tossed off the rest of her Bloody Mary, stubbed out her cigarette in the empty glass, turned in her trowel, and headed for the shower.

Cora Felton, cleaned and polished and looking her conservative best in a discreet gray sunbonnet, white blouse, black skirt, and black and white linen vest, parked her car in the lot between the town hall and the Congregational church, and ambled across the Village Green. As usual, she saluted the statue of the horse and rider as she went by, and wondered who they were. She had stopped once to find out, but the metal plaque was too worn to read. And the wrought iron rider’s clothes were too nondescript to offer a clue. The statue could have honored a Revolutionary War hero, Pony Express rider, or Kentucky Derby winner.

Cora crossed the green and headed for the county court. She was on her way up the steps when Chief Harper came out the door.

“Miss Felton,” he said. “This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you by the courthouse this afternoon?”

Cora Felton thought fast. The amiable Bakerhaven police chief was in many respects a friend. But there was no way she was ever admitting why she was really there. Fortunately, Chief Harper didn’t know her secret. He still deferred to her as the Puzzle Lady.

Which would work.

“Just doing a little research,” Cora said.

“Research?”

“For my column. Thought I might work in a little legal anecdote. And the truth is, I’ve never really seen a courtroom proceeding. Outside of movies and TV. And how accurate is that?”

“Probably accurate enough for what you need,” Chief Harper replied. “You’re certainly welcome to watch, but I’ve got to warn you, real courtroom proceedings are pretty dull.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Cora Felton said. She smiled at Chief Harper and made her way into the courtroom.

Henry Firth presided over the prosecution table. A little man with a thin mustache, a twitchy nose, and an insinuating manner, the Bakerhaven prosecutor always reminded Cora Felton of a rat. Cora had never dealt with Firth directly, and hoped she never would. Watching him from a distance was quite enough.

At the defense table sat an elderly man in a three-piece suit. He was tall, thin, and distinguished-looking, with an angular face and a very pointed nose, the tip of which supported a pair of half-glasses.

Next to him perched a scruffy man who seemed to be having a hard time staying awake. His head kept bobbing forward, and it seemed as if he had to keep catching himself to avoid curling up like a cat right there on the table. He was unshaven, and his hair was a matted mess. His clothes looked like they’d been slept in for several days. The man was of indeterminate age—he could have turned out to be anywhere from twenty to sixty without surprising Cora in the least.

Especially since she wasn’t really paying that much attention to him.

Her eyes were glued on the young woman behind the defense table who was leaning over the spectators’ railing, her long blond hair cascading in careless curls that jiggled while she talked, her purple pants suit gaping fashionably at the neck, her makeup understated, brilliantly accentuating her near-perfect features.

Cora Felton took this all in at a glance, scowled, and almost wished she hadn’t come.

The man who was sitting in the front row of the press section just behind the defense table, the man the young woman had leaned over to talk to, was none other than Aaron Grant.

Cora Felton watched a few minutes while Becky Baldwin flirted with Aaron Grant. Even from the back row, Cora Felton could see that Becky Baldwin’s eyes were bright, her smile wide, her cheeks flushed, her face animated.

And Aaron Grant seemed to be eating it up. Although, Cora conceded, that was hardly a fair assessment, considering she could only see the back of his head.

The door behind the judge’s bench opened, the court officer intoned, “Please rise,” and a white-haired man in a black robe came in and sat at the bench. Cora Felton did not know the judge, but realized she’d seen him around town, most likely at Cushman’s Bake Shop, where she often had coffee.

The court officer droned, “Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Winston Hobbs presiding.”

Judge Hobbs put on reading glasses, fumbled with some papers, and said, “What have we today?”

Prosecutor Henry Firth was on his feet. “Your Honor, first on the docket we have a citation for speeding issued to one Ira Greenspan, for doing seventy-two miles per hour in a fifty-five-mile-per-hour zone. The amount of the citation is eighty-five dollars, at five dollars a mile for every mile over the speed limit.”

“I see that it is,” Judge Hobbs said. “And why has this routine matter crossed my desk?”

“Mr. Greenspan doesn’t want to pay it, Your Honor.”

“Oh?”

A plump, middle-aged man sitting near the front of the court got up and pushed his way through the gate. “That’s right, Your Honor,” he said, sounding aggrieved. “I’m Ira Greenspan, and I’m pleading innocent.”

“On what grounds?”

Ira Greenspan seemed startled by the question. “I wasn’t speeding.”

“I see.” Judge Hobbs nodded. “Very well. Is the arresting officer here?”

“He is.” Henry Firth turned, gestured. “Officer Finley.”

An officer with sandy hair and freckles got to his feet and pushed his way through the gate. Cora Felton smiled. Dan Finley was a Puzzle Lady fan, young and impressionable enough to be flustered in her presence. But in the courtroom the youthful police officer seemed right at home. He stepped smartly up to the judge’s bench, said, “Yes, Your Honor?”

“Officer, there is a dispute as to the citation you issued to this gentleman. He claims he was not speeding. Mr. Greenspan, how fast were you going at the time?”

“Fifty-five, Your Honor.”

“Officer Finley, how fast do you claim he was going?”

“I clocked him at seventy-two.”

“I see,” Judge Hobbs said. “Mr. Greenspan, this is a very simple case. We have conflicting testimony. It’s just a question of whom you believe. I choose to believe the officer. I find you guilty as charged. Pay the bailiff a hundred and eighty-five dollars and you’re free to go.”

Ira Greenspan was incensed. “
A hundred
and eighty-five dollars? The ticket’s eighty-five.”

“Yes, but you didn’t want to pay that, and now you owe the court costs. I would suggest next time you don’t try to argue with the radar gun. Next case.”

While the court officer ushered out a sputtering Ira Greenspan, Henry Firth checked his notes. “That would be Jeff Beasley, Your Honor.”

“Ah, yes.” Judge Hobbs glanced at the defense table where the defendant had curled up with his head in his hands, the very picture of misery. “And what has Mr. Beasley done now?”

“He was apprehended last night breaking into the Hurley mansion.”

Becky Baldwin shot to her feet. “One moment, Your Honor. I object to the prosecutor summarizing the charges in this manner. My client was not arrested breaking into the Hurley mansion.”

Henry Firth appeared amused. “That’s right, Your Honor. He was found passed out in an upstairs bedroom.”

“I object to the term
passed out
,” Becky Baldwin said.

Judge Hobbs frowned and put up his hand. “Pardon me, young lady, but just who are you?”

“I’m Rebecca Baldwin. I’m Mr. Beasley’s attorney.”

“Oh? I thought Arth" athoughtur Kincaid was attorney of record.”

“I was, Your Honor.” The distinguished silver-haired man sitting next to the defendant stood and adjusted the glasses on his nose. “As you know, I have represented Mr. Beasley in the past, and when this matter arose he consulted me again. However, when I learned the facts of the case, it turned out it involved the Hurley estate. As I am the Hurleys’ attorney, it was clear there would be a conflict of interest. So I asked Ms. Baldwin if she would represent the defendant in this action.”

“I see.” Judge Hobbs nodded. “And just what is the defendant charged with?”

“Breaking and entering, breaking and entering with intent to steal, burglary, larceny, trespassing, drunk and disorderly,” Henry Firth said.

“Oh, for goodness sakes,” Becky Baldwin said. “What about jaywalking? How did you ever miss that one?”

“One moment,” Judge Hobbs said. He frowned. “Mr. Kincaid, this arrangement may not be entirely felicitous. Young lady, there is no reason to take an attitude with the Court.”

“Maybe not, Your Honor. But so many charges certainly seems like overkill. I mean, this is not the crime of the century here.”

“I would agree, Your Honor,” Arthur Kincaid interposed. “It is my understanding that Mr. Beasley was found asleep on the premises. Since he did not attempt to leave the premises, and since there is no evidence that he attempted to steal anything, as the attorney for the estate I have no real wish to press charges.”

“Uh huh,” Judge Hobbs said. “And do the heirs share your feelings in this matter?”

Arthur Kincaid shrugged. “It’s a moot point, Your Honor. The will is to be read at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Until such time, the heirs have no rights in the estate. Indeed, until then, it is not clear just who the heirs are.”

Judge Hobbs scowled. “Surely
you
know.”

“I don’t, Your Honor.” Arthur Kincaid smiled. “As you know, Emma Hurley was rather … eccentric. Her last will and testament is sealed. Her final instructions to me were to gather the heirs, or potential heirs, and then, and only then, to break the seal and read her will.”

“Is that so?” Judge Hobbs cocked his head. “Well, in that case, I see no reason why we can’t come to some understanding.”

Henry Firth cleared his throat. “Your Honor, I must point out these charges are not Mr. Kincaid’s to drop.”

“Of course not,” Judge Hobbs agreed. “However, in light of the situation, I see no reason why this case can’t reach a speedy resolution. Attorneys, if I could see you in my chambers.”

Judge Hobbs left the bench and went out the back door, followed by the three attorneyighree atts. That left Jeff Beasley sitting alone at the defense table. It occurred to Cora Felton that if Beasley wanted to he could just get up and walk out of court. That must have occurred to the court officer too, because he went over and sat beside him. Mr. Beasley hardly seemed a flight risk, however: he was snoring.

In the front row of the courtroom, Aaron Grant stretched, looked around, and spotted Cora Felton. He smiled and waved, but it occurred to Cora he looked suddenly sheepish. She sat in the back row, waited for him to come and join her.

He walked up, smiling, and said, “What brings you here?”

“Just getting material for my column,” Cora answered.

“But you don’t write a column,” Aaron objected.

“Exactly,” Cora said. She cocked her head. “You think you might mention that to Sherry?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. You know how awkward it is for me pretending you don’t know?”

“I can imagine.”

“And it’s not like I told you. You figured it out on your own. If you hadn’t decided to burden me with the information, there would be no problem.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“When?”

Aaron was saved from having to reply by the return of the judge. He crept back to the press row while the lawyers resumed their places at the tables. The court officer left the prisoner in the care of his attorneys, who managed to shake him awake.

“So,” Judge Hobbs said, when everyone was once again in position. “Let me state for the record that the charges against the defendant, Jeff Beasley, have been amended as follows: all charges of breaking and entering and attempted burglary and larceny shall be dropped; the defendant shall plead guilty to criminal trespass and drunk and disorderly, in return for a sentence of three days in jail and a twenty-five-dollar fine.”

Jeff Beasley spoke for the first time. “No jail!”

Judge Hobbs frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I ain’t goin’ to jail! If I have to go to jail, it’s no deal.”

“Mr. Beasley,” Judge Hobbs said. “Let me try to explain. You are a repeat offender. This is not the first time you’ve stood before me. This will not be your first drunk and disorderly charge, nor your first criminal trespass. But that’s beside the point. Three days is nothing. Are you aware of the penalties for breaking and entering with intent to steal if those charges are allowed to stand?”

“No, but they ain’t.” For a man who had been unconscious moments before, Beasley was remarkably sharp. “Those charges are dropped.”

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“Those charges are
provisionally
dropped,” Judge Hobbs corrected, “on the stipulation that you would plead guilty to lesser charges.”

“Well, I never agreed to that.”

“Your attorney did.”

“My attorney?” Beasley said. “My attorney’s Arthur Kincaid. Then I come to court and some schoolgirl I never seen before agrees I should go to jail? Now, tell me, Judge: What’s fair about that?”

Judge Hobbs frowned. “If the defendant does not wish the matter disposed of in this manner, he certainly has that right. Therefore, the original charges are reinstated. I hereby arraign him on breaking and entering, and bind him over for trial.”