Anastasia’s still standing in front of the bench, as if the judge might change his mind if she hangs around long enough. I point at her. “The fragile one?”
Louisa lets out a small laugh. “One and the same,” she says. “The dear girl wants me to spring for tomorrow’s luncheon. Says she’s broke.”
“Broke?”
Louisa laughs again. “She doesn’t know the meaning of the word. But no matter. I’m happy to pay for it. It’s my responsibility in the first place.”
She’s right, of course. It is. Still, something about the request rankles me. Maybe it’s the timing.
“Your Honor.” Geraldine had gone back to her table when I came back to mine, but now she’s at the bench again, her copy of the signed order in hand. “Will you at least make the court’s permission contingent upon the availability of prison personnel?”
The judge sets his gavel on the bench and smiles. For a moment, he says nothing. His eyes move from Geraldine to Anastasia and back again. “The county coffers might have to cough up a little overtime,” he says at last, “because the answer is no, Attorney Schilling. I won’t.”
CHAPTER 28
Thursday, October 19
A steady stream of expensive cars winds down Fox Hill Road. Most sport Connecticut plates and every one of them turns left into the driveway that leads uphill to the imposing Eastward Edge Clubhouse. Herb Rawlings’s memorial service is scheduled to begin at eleven. The mourners seem to have decided en masse to show up ten minutes beforehand. And somehow, though we’re almost never early for anything, Harry, the Kydd, and I arrive in the midst of them.
Behind us is a dark blue Mercedes-Benz, its polished three-pointed star glinting on the hood in the morning sunshine. Ahead, a Bentley follows a BMW—an X5, the Kydd tells us authoritatively from the backseat. The BMW follows a Jaguar—an XK8, according to our resident auto enthusiast. All three cars come to a stop in the circular driveway and we idle behind them in Harry’s Jeep.
A uniformed valet attends to each of the vehicles ahead of us, opening and closing doors for the occupants and then whisking the car away. There seems to be a small army of young men in double-breasted maroon suit coats sporting the colorful Eastward Edge logo. They wear visored hats, leather gloves, and somber expressions befitting the occasion.
“Hot damn,” the Kydd says as he takes in our surroundings. “I need a raise.”
Harry laughs, but I don’t. I twist in the passenger seat and stare, silently reminding the Kydd of his recent ethical transgressions. Many a lawyer’s license has been suspended for less. He’s in a precarious professional position at the moment, not one that gives him a lot of bargaining power. “Surely you jest,” I tell him.
“Just kidding,” he mumbles through clenched teeth.
“You’d better be.”
Harry laughs again. He has no idea.
A valet is at the driver’s-side door. He’s older than the others and he seems to be the guy in charge. He bends down and leans in when Harry opens the window. “Sir,” he says, tipping his hat, “we ask pickup trucks and, uh”—his eyes travel the length of Harry’s worn-out Jeep—“recreational vehicles to park in the lower lot.” He clears his throat, then stands up straight and points downhill, as if the matter is settled.
Harry opens his door abruptly and the man in uniform jumps back. “Nope,” Harry says as he leaves the Jeep. The Kydd and I get out too. We’ve seen this routine—in different settings—before.
“But, sir,” the valet tries.
“You asked,” Harry interrupts. “I answered.”
“But, sir,” the valet repeats. This time, though, he holds one hand out, palm open, as he tries to explain. Harry drops the key in it. “Take good care of her,” he says with a wink. “She’s an heir-loom.”
Chief Car Parker looks like he intends to argue, but he falters, momentarily distracted by something in the line behind us. Louisa Rawlings and her prison escorts have arrived. They’re in a gray van, branded Barnstable County Sheriff’s Department in bold black letters on both sides. It’s sandwiched between a shiny red Maserati and a gleaming black Lincoln Continental.
Harry shakes his head in disapproval when the bewildered valet turns back to us. “You’d better lock it,” Harry says, walking away from him. “You know, this used to be a decent neighborhood.”
We’re almost inside when the Kydd stops in his tracks on the top step. “You go ahead,” he says to Harry and me. “I’m going to wait. Louisa shouldn’t have to walk in there with no one but prison staff around her.”
Harry punches the Kydd in the arm. “That’s thoughtful of you, Kydd, damned thoughtful. You’re a decent son of a gun.”
I give the Kydd a pointed glare, the extent of his thoughtfulness for Louisa Rawlings unspoken between us.
Draping an arm around the Kydd’s shoulder, Harry turns to me and dabs at the corner of his eye, as if brushing a tear away. “We raised him right,” he says.
The Kydd gives me a grave nod, confirming Harry’s sentiment.
I’d like to bang their heads together.
The van’s side door opens and a prison matron steps out to the cobblestone walkway. Louisa emerges next, in the same beige trench coat and wide-brimmed hat she wore on Monday’s trip from her house to lockup. No doubt her butter yellow coat dress is beneath. It’s unlikely that the prison-guard van driver swung by Easy Street to let her select a mourning ensemble. It’s even more unlikely that Anastasia would have let her in the door if he had.
I’m relieved to see that Louisa isn’t cuffed. In situations like this one, prison escorts have broad discretion regarding the use of restraints. The decision to forgo them here doesn’t involve much in the way of risk; both matrons have bulging holsters strapped around their hips, after all. Still, it was decent of them. A little scrap of Louisa Rawlings’s dignity can attend the service with her.
Harry and I head inside first. Louisa follows, flanked by her escorts, the Kydd trailing a few steps behind. A slight, fussy sort of man greets us, his mustache so straight it looks like someone painted it above his lip. He directs us down a short hallway to double doors at the end.
We walk through the open doors into a good-size room facing the water. White wooden folding chairs—about a hundred of them—are set up in rows, five on each side of the room, creating a wide aisle in the center. Most of the seats are already filled, even the two rows in front, which are roped off with red velvet.
Harry points to three vacant chairs on the end of row four. He goes in first and takes a seat next to Louisa’s ex, Glen Powers. I follow, the Kydd right behind me. Glen looks up and nods a silent greeting to all of us. I wonder how long it’s been since he and Harry have seen each other.
Harry leans over to whisper to me, “Have you two met?” He points a thumb toward Glen Powers.
“Yes,” I answer. “I met him on Sunday.”
“Well, that’s just ducky,” Harry says, feigning a huff.
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, nothing,” he answers. “But the last time Powers met a woman I was seeing, he married her.”
I frown at him.
Louisa and her bookends continue down the aisle, until yet another slight, fussy sort of man stops them. “I’m sorry,” he says, pointing backward at the roped-off rows. “These are reserved for family.”
“She is family,” one of the matrons snaps.
The fussy man seems taken aback.
“It’s all right,” Louisa says, pointing backward to three empty chairs directly in front of ours. “I’ll be fine right there.”
“You sure?” The other escort is ready to take on the fussy little man too. It occurs to me that the matrons act as if they’re Louisa’s big sisters. They might bully her at will, but they’re sure as hell not going to let an outsider get away with it.